


I LOVE YOU BUT I'M LOST.

by fisheyed



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Billy Hargrove Lives, Brotherly Steve Harrington & Dustin Henderson, California, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Good Friend Robin Buckley, Hotel Sex, M/M, Road Trips, ref to parental abuse, steve and billy switch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-09-29 12:43:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20436224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fisheyed/pseuds/fisheyed
Summary: He takes a deep drag and blows the cloud in Steve's face, making him cough as he just laughs, shaking ashes to the asphalt and chuckling to himself and stepping forward —And Steve wakes up to the sun creeping over the horizon.Billy's in a coma after Starcourt, Steve's trying to pick up the pieces of his life, and somehow they both end up in a Camaro headed for California.





	1. dreams are fading slow

**Author's Note:**

> ([title](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8RxlpQTgqO4))
> 
> _Dedicated to G, you know who you are :)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ([chapter title](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q8jIRkUQRC4))

Steve's got something burning inside of him, and he doesn't know what it is. All he knows is two things: That it just gets bigger every time he tries to shove it down, and that one day, it's going to eat him alive.

It scares him, sometimes. Mostly when the house starts feeling too empty. Steve likes having his privacy — really, he literally never has to wear pants.

But. It’s just, it's really difficult going from being surrounded by a bundle of nerds (and Robin) to suddenly stepping alone into a house built for three.

Which is dumb, since it's always been like this. It's not like his parents were going to magically decide they wanted to stick around since their only child had just graduated high school and had no idea what he wanted to do with his life, since college isn't on the table and the only thing going for him is part-time jobs at an ice cream parlor and now an arcade.

Steve tosses his keys onto the kitchen table, hardly flinching when they clatter to the floor. He hasn't eaten dinner, but it's already past ten o'clock and his mom usually scolds him for eating too late. He pats his stomach and shrugs.

Before he'd dropped the twerp off at home (the kid had wanted to stick around to see him struggle in his efforts to close shop, laughing like a maniac the entire time), Dustin had tossed him a manual for their nerd game and simply said, "We need you to be Dungeon Master."

"What," Steve said, only catching the book on instinct. It'd been a terrible toss, but a beautiful catch. Steve really should've continued baseball. He'd been wasted on basketball.

"Earth to Steve," Dustin groaned, "and I said, _ read up _ so you can Dungeon Master. We wanna surprise Will when he comes back for Christmas with a campaign we can all do together!"

"I understood, like, half those words."

"You've got more than one neuron, Harrington, you'll figure it out," Dustin simply snooted before darting out of the Beamer and screeching, "GOODNIGHTTHANKSFORTHERIDE!"

"Dammit, Henderson," Steve had grumbled even as he laid the book carefully on the passenger seat.

Steve picks the same book up now. It's torn up for shit, and faded and smells a little like cat piss.

Against his better judgement, he's also a little flattered that the shitheads would trust him with something so important to them. So he kicks off his shoes and jacket and promises himself he’ll clean it up tomorrow before flopping on the couch and turning to page one.

Steve gets about halfway through the introduction when it hits him in the gut; he sucks in a breath and scrunches his nose to keep from doing something stupid.

But in under a minute, the walls still start squeezing in and Steve swears he can feel Upside Down dust tickling his throat.

-

He wakes up the next morning having slept about three hours. Which is just enough to get him out of bed and into his Beemer. And eventually, somehow, to the arcade.

Keith gives him a Star Trek salute and a grin, calling out cheerfully, "You're late! Trash duty, Steve!"

"Gotcha,” Steve says as enthusiastically as he can manage. “No vomit to wipe up?"

"Not yet," Keith says gravely, "but by the looks of some of these kids, the time may come all too soon. You know how excited these games get 'em."

Sometimes Steve can't tell if he's joking or not. He chuckles awkwardly, hopes that Keith is, and snaps on the cleaning gloves.

True to his luck, the trash can's already overflowing with garbage and half-eaten pizza crusts. That's what he gets for sleeping over his alarm, he figures. He gags as he does his best to tie-up the mess before his hair goes limp and falls out, or something.

"Isn't that the same outfit you were wearing yesterday?"

Steve spins around, hands covered in gloves layered in the germs and sweat of about 1,000 nerd children. "Huh?"

Robin smirks and nods to his outfit. "You were definitely wearing that same ugly sweater yesterday. It looks like a blanket my grams knits for her senile cat."

"Well, I think that's very nice of your grams," Steve says. "She's got good taste."

"Yeah, but the cat still pisses all over it."

Steve raises his eyebrows.

Robin cocks hers. She opens her mouth, no doubt to fire back the wittiest comment Steve'll ever hear —

Then Keith shrieks at them to "get back to work or I'm calling the manager!" Which is dumb, given that he's the manager.

Robin just grins tiredly and rolls her eyes, mouthing "good luck" before running after the next kid demanding a refund because he lost the game.

-

It's Friday, which means the kids aren't coming to the arcade. They've got a limited supply of money, after all, and there's loads more to do in town even with Starcourt gone. Steve heard something about a drive-in theater showing some old film a couple miles down.

Robin volunteers to lock up that night even though Steve tries really hard to insist on it.

"Don't think I didn't catch you zoning out, like, a bajillion times back there," Robin warns him. "You're tired as hell. Just go back home and, I dunno, take a 15-hour nap."

"Sounds a little long for a nap," Steve says, but his eyes do feel like they're about to pop out of his skull.

She just shoves him out the door and says, "Drive home safe, sucker."

"Hey," Steve says suddenly, before he can lose his nerve. Not that he had much, what with the sleep deprivation. "Hey, wanna get lunch tomorrow since there's no work? Hang out, and stuff?"

She’s taken aback. Robin blinks. "I'm…?"

"NOT A DATE," Steve rushes to say, patting her arm very reassuringly. "Just, like, friends. Chillin'. Y'know, with the boys. I'm the boys," he adds in case she didn’t know.

"I…" And Robin does not look like she's about to graciously accept. "Shit, sorry, but I've actually already got plans. With some band friends. Like, a college-goodbye-thing for the people leaving early — It's just, we're going up to the lake and we've been planning way in advance —"

"Oh," Steve says.

She shrugs awkwardly. "Yeah."

He clears his throat and straightens his shoulders and says, "Cool, it's no problem. I was just, y'know, wondering." Steve pauses for a breath and exhales with a smile. "Have fun, Robin."

"Thanks," she says, but it's hesitant. "I mean, we can always hang out the weekend after. And we have lunch breaks together at the arcade, so…"

But they don't get to chat as often as they did at Scoops Ahoy. Summer is busier for a chaotic arcade than an overpriced ice cream shop, which means they rarely get a chance to sit down, much less talk.

And then he remembers that he and Robin may be friendly, but they don't have a whole lot in common besides them both liking girls and knowing about other dimensions and getting held hostage by commies. And getting high together thanks to said commies. And knowing some weird fucking children. Jesus, he didn’t even remember them having a class together in high school.

But that just makes him feel sick, so he shoves it aside.

"Yep," Steve says and salutes her. Naturally, Robin salutes back and that's that.

He drives back to his empty house alone and wonders if it's okay that he skips dinner again.

-

Steve knows you're not supposed to drink on an empty stomach, much less right before bed, but he was never really known for his brains.

So he really shouldn’t be surprised when he opens his eyes he's standing right back in Starcourt, fireworks screaming through the air, out of tune with the Mind Flayer's shrieks and wails. Everything is flashing and he's supposed to be the brave young man, the solid wall of strength and solidarity, but he just really, really wants this to be over so he can count all the kids’ heads and know they’re safe.

He reaches back, then crow-hops into the throw the way his Little League coach had taught him. The firework goes off right before it hits the Mind Flayer around where its right eye should be, and Steve curses under his breath — he wants to hurt the damn thing, not irritate it.

But then he looks down.

He doesn't know why he does it. But he does. And he sees the girl, Hopper's kid, El, and he sees Billy Hargrove.

And somehow, he just knows. Because El brings _ that _ out in people. And Billy is a hardass, a sick, twisted son of a bitch, even when he's not possessed by a monster — but he's still a person.

Dustin shouts something after him but Steve's already sprinting down the stairs, feet falling in all the right places even as everything's a blur and his only thought is he needs to _ protect _ and _ no one gets hurt _ and it's stupid, so fucking stupid, because Billy Hargrove punched him into the dirt and couldn't give two fucks about him but Steve can't just let him…

Billy yells at the fucking thing, just screams it down even as it shrieks back and —

This is — _flashes —_ he tackles — _screaming —_ they —

— he's — _gasps —_ so much fucking blood —

_— falling —_

-

Steve wakes up in a pool of his own sweat.

His heart feels like it's trying to smash its way out of his skin, and Steve rips off his shirt without another thought, just pressing his hands to his chest until his heart exhausts itself.

By the time it's slowed down, Steve can already hear the doves cooing for sunrise. He sighs, shoves his face in his palms and feels really fucking stupid. And drained.

"Hargrove's not dead," he reminds himself aloud. He feels a little foolish doing it, but Dustin is always saying how talking about things helps him _ process_. Granted, he talks to Suzie, but right now, the house is all Steve's got. "You tackled Hargrove before he could do something stupid. He's in the hospital recovering.

He takes a deep breath. "Robin is okay. You work with Robin at the arcade. Dustin is okay. His mom invited to you over to babysit tonight, which is why you can't look like a train ran you over five times in the last hour. Erica, Lucas, Mike, and Max are okay. They're with their families. Will and Jonathan and El are okay, and far away. Nancy is doing fine,” _ without you_, his brain adds, and he ignores the twist in his gut. “The Russians are gone. The Mind Flayer is gone. The Demogorgon and Demodogs are gone."

When it starts to feel safe again, Steve opens his eyes to watch the sunrise. Sunrises are supposed to be calming, right? Poets are always talking about how beautiful the sun is. His senior year English teacher likened sunrises to "new beginnings", or some bullshit symbolism like that. 

Watching the sun creep across the grey sky doesn't make him feel any warmer inside.

-

"Guess how many marshmallows I can fit inside my mouth."

Steve squints at Dustin's face, trying to do the math on the added benefit of not having any front teeth. "I wanna say… ten. At least."

"Hm..." Dustin nods thoughtfully. "Close. Got a more accurate hypothesis, though?"

Steve squints a little harder. "Eleven?"

"Nope!" Dustin crows, beaming to show off the wide gal in his teeth. "_Twelve! _ Impressive, huh?"

It _ is _ pretty impressive. Maybe Steve should've gone into marshmallow-stuffing instead of keg-chugging. "Anyone beat that record yet?"

"Suzie's pretty close," the kid admits, "but she's still only at ten. Double digits are great, but she can't exactly knock her teeth out. Her parents would probably kill her."

"So losing your pearly whites gave you two extra 'mallows worth of wiggle room?"

Dustin nods solemnly. "And Suzie says it probably means I'm a good kisser. I hope my teeth never grow back in."

Steve chokes on his Coke.

"Anyway, found a girlfriend yet?" Dustin asks amiably, flopping back into his mom's couch. A cloud of cat hair plumes out upon impact. Since Mews went missing, Mrs. Henderson’s opened her heart and home to three new cats. Steve can’t remember their names but he’s pretty sure they’re adorable.

Steve shrugs. "Y'know, haven't really been looking for one."

"I thought you were over Nancy," Dustin says, sounding a little worried.

"Oh, no, trust me, I am," Steve insists with great emotion, dread already creeping around his spine. "I mean, she’s outta my league. Her hair's in a considerably lower one than mine. Haha."

He'd meant it as a joke, but Dustin says, dead serious, "And mine."

"Absolutely," Steve agrees carefully. "But no, really, after the whole showdown at Starcourt, I've kinda decided to take a break from the whole dating scene. There's more to life than that, y'know?"

"So you and Robin didn't work out," Dustin says. He slumps even further in the couch. Bless his soul, the little nerd was disappointed his Scoops Ahoy heroes didn't get together.

Steve just chuckles a little. "Turns out I'm not her type either."

"Aww, too bad. Hey, did you know Suzie's…”

It’s kind of sweet, really, how much Dustin cares about Suzie. Steve wonders vaguely if he’d ever acted like that about Nancy. He thinks he must’ve, because he was in love with her; because he knows that even now, he’d die for her without a question. But Dustin can rattle off Suzie’s favorite color and her reasoning, how she dots her i’s, and what she thinks about _ Blade Runner _(which she'd watched without parental permission, what a rebel) and yet Steve couldn’t tell you how Nancy takes her coffee.

“Hello? Earth to Steve?”

Steven blinks. Refocuses on the kid, and the poor guy is looking at him like he’s gone bonkers. “Hey, sorry. Zoned out there for a bit.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Dustin says in the sort of tone that makes Steve think he’s been hanging around Erica too much. He’s still trying to convert her to ‘Full Nerd’. “Doin’ okay in there, buddy?”

“Geez, Henderson, chill out, I’m fine,” Steve laughs, giving the kid a play shove. “Hey, why don’t we give Suzie a call? The two of you can sing your musical number —”

“Don’t mock our romance! Just because you’re suddenly swearing off _ love _ doesn’t mean you have to be _ bitter _ about young love —”

“Oh-ho-ho!” Steve whoops, ruffling Dustin’s hair even as the kid tries to throw a couple (weak!) punches. “So you’re in love, Henderson?”

“I — _NO —_ I was just being general!”

“So you don’t love Suzie?”

“_NO_, ugh, you’re such a shithead —”

“Ooh, that’s a bad word! I’m gonna have to tell your mom, Dustie!”

“Don’t you dare! I-I’ll pay you extra!”

Steve snorts. “Yeah, I know for a fact you’ve only got, like, 20 cents.”

“Shut up!”

-

It’s difficult to believe that the whole Starcourt thing with the Russians and the giant fucking monster was only a month ago. The Byers and El moved out as quickly as they could, probably within a couple weeks. And with them and Hopper… gone and the mall burned to the ground, it almost feels like nothing had ever happened.

Almost.

Steve wishes he had a scar or something. Something to remind him that he hadn’t dreamt the whole thing up. Broken noses and black eyes heal up and go away eventually, but there’s something about having the pain tattooed on your body that makes it more real, and less like you’re going crazy.

Logically, Steve knows that he can find a reminder of that nightmare easily. Dustin was there with him, and Nancy and Robin, too. But Dustin is so young; he can’t force him to relive any of that. Not when even mentioning Hopper sets him on edge. And Nancy, from what he’s heard, is still heartbroken and grieving. Their friendship has been tenuous at best since the break-up, anyway. Robin… Robin’s moving on. Steve doesn’t want to drag her back in, either.

Who else could he talk to? His _ parents_? They’d think he'd really lost it and lock him up in an asylum.

And what would he even say? A casual, _ Hey, so remember when we fought a monster made of human goo in Starcourt with grocery store fireworks? Pretty wild. _

No, it’s better that Steve just continues trying to wait it out. Just forget everything strange that happened like everyone else has, and move on with life. If a gaggle of middle schoolers can do it, so can Steve.

-

He's standing right back in Starcourt. 

Everything is flashing and screaming and hissing and whizzing, bright fireworks bursting frantically against the ugly, fleshy Mind Flayer in a desperate attempt to slow it down.

_ Protect! _ his instincts scream. _ Shield! Attack! Drive it off, destroy it! _

He reaches back, preparing to throw a firework at the Mind Flayer’s eye, when he looks down and sees Billy and Eleven and he freezes.

_ This isn’t how it goes_, something whispers and Steve’s blood runs cold.

Billy turns from Eleven, determination drawing his muscles tight and he screams the fucking monster down, even as it shrieks back and —

— it launches forward and Billy staggers, and he screams in a different way now, and Steve hates it, hates the sound and that he can’t do anything because he’s just frozen, and it’s just all so stupid and sad and terrifying —

-

When Steve wakes up, the groggy morning sun is barely peeking through his windows. He’s covered in a layer of sweat, as usual, but his face is wet with something else.

He rubs the fear from his sore, puffy eyes and thinks, _ What am I going to do? _

-

When Steve gets off work early on Tuesday, he finds himself at a loss.

"I can keep working —" he starts, but Robin cuts him off.

"You're definitely overworked, Steve," she says, and she's serious. "Go home and take a nap."

So he gets in his car, but all he can think is, _ I can't go home. I can't go home. _

Before he can panic too hard in the parking lot of the arcade — where Robin and _ Keith _ can see him very clearly — Steve pulls away and just drives.

And that's how he finds himself frozen at the wheel of his car in the parking lot of Hawkins General Hospital.

Half the hospital is still under repair after Nancy, Jonathan, and the kids’ little adventure, but even that is nearly complete. Sweeping the evidence under the rug.

He feels guilty because it's a hospital, but he wishes the damage could show just a little longer. He's pretty sure Hopper's FBI connection had hurried up the whole operation to get the town to go all hush-hush on the July 4th situation, but, well. It's not like he can ask Hopper.

Hopper's funeral was a small affair. The police station had set it all up, but no one had looked more devastated than Mrs. Byers. It was a nice day, Steve remembers thinking. Too nice for a burial. Not that they had anything to bury.

Steve hops out of his car and slams the door, and he forces himself into the hospital before his thoughts get too loud.

"I'm here to see Billy Hargrove," he tells the receptionist.

-

In high school, Steve had learned three indisputable facts about Billy Hargrove:

  1. Billy Hargrove is larger than life.
  2. Billy Hargrove always wins.
  3. Billy Hargrove will not hesitate to hurt anyone who disagrees with these things.

Steve looks down at Hargrove now and he looks small.

The nurse who'd walked him in smiles politely. "Are you family?"

"Huh? Oh, no, no, just an, uh… concerned classmate."

"How sweet!" The nurse beams, looking like she's about an inch away from pinching his cheeks. "I'm so glad he's finally getting more visitors. Usually it's just his little sister, and she only comes about once every two weeks for an hour or so."

Steve frowns. Max had been so concerned for her brother… She should be in his room every day. 

"Yeah, y'know, I hear his family's been really busy," Steve lies. "Something about the house, job, y'know…"

"Mm, yes, that happens," the nurse says. She fiddles with some of the equipment by Hargrove, and that's when Steve notices that the funny line on the screen is pretty low, and that they've been talking pretty loudly and yet Hargrove hasn't stirred a bit.

"How long's he been like..." Steve pauses for the right word, "...this?"

"Since he came in about a month ago," the nurse says, tsk-ing as she peers down at Hargrove, whose face is entirely blank. No emotion. "His vitals were low so we hooked him up to an IV, did the blood transfusion, and all that. He should be fine by now… We thought he'd wake up after a couple weeks. But he's still out, so it must be something psychological."

Steve's no doctor, and he may have missed a lot down in the Russian lair, but he knows the Mind Flayer really messed up Hargrove's head. That had to be psychologically damaging for sure.

"Well, you just take your time, now," the nurse says gently, patting him on the shoulder before leaving the room. "Try talking to him; hearing a friendly voice might coax him out of his coma."

Steve doubts Hargrove would think of his voice as anything close to _ friendly_, but he thanks her and takes the seat next to Hargrove's bed, anyway.

It's strange seeing Hargrove like this. He's always doing something, saying something — constantly in action and moving, taking up space. It wasn’t all good things, even before the Mind Flayer stuff, but they were something. Seeing him just laying down without expression… It's creepy, and it feels weirdly invasive.

What's also weird is Steve not being able to see Hargrove's chest. The guy had always enjoyed strutting around with his shirt half-unbuttoned. The ratty hospital gown drowns him out.

Steve shifts his gaze away and says, "Uh. Hi."

Hargrove, of course, says nothing back. They’d even shaved off his mustache.

"The nurse said I should say some shit and that it'd wake you or something, but I dunno… I…" Steve struggles with the words, wrestles them around in his mind before realizing that he really doesn't have any. He crosses his arms in front of his chest, squirming a little in the hard hospital chair. "I know you don't want to hear from me. You definitely don't. Hell, the last time we had an extended conversation, you beat the shit out of me. Definitely won't be forgetting that anytime soon."

He sighs, looks at the ground. "Look, I'm sorry, I don't even know what I'm really doing here. Just drove here without thinking much about anything. You'd think hanging around brains like Dustin's, Robin's, and Erica's would've rubbed off on me somehow, but I seem to be as thoughtless as ever."

"I'll bring by Max sometime," he says suddenly. He still can't bear to look at Hargrove like this, but Max could. Max will. "Soon. Within a week, for sure. I'll make sure you're not alone here," he promises.

-

When Steven asks Dustin to ask Max if she’s free over the weekend, Dustin doesn’t ask any questions. He just dials her up — or, uh, however radios work — and she says, “_Yeah, sure._”

Which is a lot easier than Steve’s expecting. Not that he’s upset or anything, it’s just surprising, and it makes him, oddly enough, a little anxious. But he’s pretty sure this is the right thing to do.

“Steve says he’ll pick you up at seven on Friday night,” Dustin informs Max in what Steve has come to recognize as his ‘Gold Leader’ voice. “Be there or be square!”

“_What does he even want?_”

Dustin looks up at Steve.

Steve shrugs.

“It’s a surprise,” Dustin says decisively. “But he’s definitely not kidnapping you for ransom.”

The radio crackles with an elegant snort. “_Cool. Ask him if Lucas can come too._”

Steve shrugs.

“Yeah, it’s cool,” Dustin says.

“_‘Kay. Bye, losers._”

Dustin rolls his eyes and turns off the radio. “Jesus, she’s so rude. Suzie would never.”

-

Steve picks Max and Lucas up from the arcade, which is easy enough since he gets off work at seven on Fridays. Max hasn’t said anything, but he’s pretty sure her home life isn’t the best so he doesn’t question it, just grabs Lucas and Max from their little date and drives.

“My mom doesn’t have to pay you for this, right?” Lucas says from the backseat.

Steve balks. “What? Why would she do that?”

“I _ know _ you babysit Dustin,” Lucas says, with a little scoff. 

Max snorts and gives him a gentle shove. “Just because you’re a couple months older doesn’t mean you couldn’t use a babysitter, too.”

“Hey, I’m already babysitting Erica —"

“This isn’t a babysitting gig!” Steve interrupts. “And besides, Dustin only needs one because his mom doesn’t want him to be alone when he gets a bout of diarrhea. Or when he’s on the radio with Suzie.”

Lucas and Max burst into laughter and Steve rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, but diarrhea sucks ass.”

“No kidding,” Max laughs. Lucas giggles. Steve takes a peek in the rearview mirror — and, yep, just as he thought. They’re holding hands. At least they’re not making out all the time like Mike and Eleven do.

Or, used to do. According to Hopper.

The thought sobers him up and he keeps his eyes glued to the road, nerves starting to creep back up on him. “We’re going to Hawkins General Hospital.”

Lucas looks confused, but Max freezes. “To see…?”

“Yeah,” Steve says.

They’re quiet for a couple minutes. Steve’s knuckles go white on the steering wheel, but he can’t bring himself to loosen up.

“Thanks,” Max says eventually, and Lucas squeezes her hand.

-

Max takes the seat by Hargrove’s bed this time, and Lucas and Steve sit by the door. She doesn’t hold his hand or anything like that, just sits there and watches his chest slowly rise and fall.

The lights flicker around a little. It’s not as violent as what the Demogorgon used to do, but it still puts Steve on edge.

“Hey,” he says, and Lucas looks up at him. “Sorry, I should’ve… I should’ve given you a heads-up. I know he —” and he jerks his head over at Hargrove, “— yeah.”

Lucas shrugs awkwardly. He’s holding a pack of Skittles that Steve bought the kids from the vending machine. “It’s okay. I know he means a lot to Max.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, “but he really did a number on you.”

“You too,” Lucas reminds him.

“Different reasons, though.” Steve runs a hand through his hair and slumps in his chair. “Still, must suck to be here. I didn’t think. Sorry, man.”

Lucas just shakes his head and offers Steve some Skittles. “I’m dating Max, not Billy. I know she cares about him so I’ve gotta be here for her, but she cares about me, too. Plus I got Skittles out of it. And it’s not like he’s awake to beat me up or anything.”

Steve pops a red Skittle in his mouth. “Pretty wise.”

“Sure,” Lucas says.

They eat Skittles in silence for a minute, watching Max watch Hargrove. She’s saying something to him now, but quietly enough that Steve can’t catch a word of it. It must be pretty serious. Her eyebrows are drawn tight, and she looks like she’s on the verge of tears.

“Why’d you want to bring Max out here, anyway?”

Steve sucks at lying, so he tells Lucas about the nurse and how she’d mentioned Hargrove didn’t have many visitors, but that talking to him could help him wake up sooner. And that he should’ve woken up from his coma a couple weeks ago.

Lucas frowns. “But why were you here that first time?”

_ I hopped in my car and it drove itself here. _

_ We’re pals now after I hit him with a car, me and Hargrove, and I just felt like paying him a visit. _

_ The pool called — they wanted me to deliver his new swim trunks. _

Steve sucks at lying. “I don’t know.”

-

Max tells them she’s ready to go after about an hour. Lucas ends up falling asleep a little at some point, but Max doesn’t mind. She thanks Lucas for being there and Steve for driving them — uncharacteristically quiet about it.

“You doing okay?” Steve asks her once they’ve all piled back up in the car.

Lucas has fallen asleep against the car window, but Max is still clinging to his hand. She says, "Yes," but it's a little shaky.

He turns around, stomach curling in on itself a little. "I'm sorry, this was stupid, I should've given you a heads-up but I didn't know what to say —"

"No," Max says, and she clears her throat, straightens up in the backseat. "No, it was really nice of you. I'm glad I got to see him. My dad doesn't, uh, like driving out here and my mom can't take me so… I don't get to see Billy a lot."

His stomach drops with relief. 

Steve says, "Would you like to come back sometime?"

Max says, "Are you free tomorrow?"

-

They make a habit of it. Lucas comes sometimes, but it's usually just Max at his bed and Steve in a chair. Dustin tags along one day, curious, but he gets bored too quickly and ends up browsing magazines in the lobby for most of the hour.

Max always takes the chair by Hargrove's bed and just sits there, telling him everything about her day. She spares no detail — everything gets included, from the knee scrapes she gets skateboarding to the pasta she tried and failed making for lunch. She even talks about Lucas and how dumb he can be sometimes, but how he really cares about her and how she really wishes they'd just get along. She talks about beating Dustin's high scores on basically every arcade game, and about how worried she is for Mike. They haven't heard from him in days.

When she thinks Steve isn't listening, she talks quietly about home. How her mom always sets a place at the table in case Billy suddenly gets back from the hospital so it'll be like he never left. How their dad — her stepdad — spends all his time in his home office, doing some shit, no one knows but no one's asking, and their mom won't stop cleaning his room. The house feels empty and on edge.

"Please wake up soon," she pleads every day before they leave.

Steve just watches her, wishing he knew what to say. To her or to Hargrove.

-

A week or so later, on a Friday evening, Max says she can't go.

"My parents don't know I've been seeing Billy," she tells Steve, shifting around guiltily. "So I should probably stay in this weekend. 'Cuz I told them I've been hanging out with friends, which isn't a lie —" and Steve is flattered that she thinks of him as a friend and not a glorified babysitter, "— but family time comes first, apparently, so…"

"No, yeah, I understand," Steve says, nodding. "I'll just pick you up Monday, then?"

"Okay," Max says, giving him a quick, nervous smile. "Thanks, Steve. And, y'know, if you wanted to see Billy this weekend and keep talking to him…"

"Don't think he wants to hear my voice," Steve says dryly.

"Maybe," Max admits. "But I just — don't like the idea of him being alone in that _ shithole_."

Steve remembers the flickering lights and Nancy's chilling story and Jonathan’s tight face as she’d told it. "Oh. Yeah, okay, I'll see what I can do."

She nods fiercely. "Thanks, Steve."

-

And that's how Steve finds himself in Billy's bedside chair on a Friday night. He'd brought pizza from the arcade with him, maybe partly in hopes that Hargrove would wake up from the smell of deliciously greasy pizza alone.

When it doesn't look like it's going to work out that way, Steve just shrugs and starts finishing it off himself.

It's a little unnerving eating next to a sleeping body, though. 

"If you were awake," Steve says finally, "I'd probably offer you half. But you're not, so. I'm just going to eat it myself."

Hargrove just lays there, tubes and stuff just pumping him full of nutrients and whatever.

"Probably tastes better than that IV," Steve mutters, and he chuckles a little at his own joke. He takes a bite of the pizza and chews it slowly, mulling over what he wants to say. "Well, uh, Max usually tells you about her day, so I guess that's what I'll do.

"I woke up at six o'clock this morning. That's better than usual. Usually I wake up before the sun rises. Not because I want to — no, Nancy would though, she’s that kind of —" He blinks, swallows past the lump in his throat at her name. "Um. Yeah. No. I, uh, well the nurse said you've got some psychological problems to work out and that's why you're not waking up — Well. Same. Kind of. I'm awake, mostly, but I just can't stop thinking about —"

He wets his lips and fiddles with the pizza box to hide his shaking legs. Not that Hargrove could see them, anyway. His brain feels fuzzy, and the room is spinning a little. Is he dehydrated? This doesn't feel good.

"I can't stop thinking Starcourt," he says finally, shutting the pizza box and staring at his twitching fingers. "And the, um, the Mind Flayer. I didn't get like this about the Demogorgon and Demodogs but, um, maybe just because I didn't have time to think about it like I have this summer. High school shit and you always being around the corner were distracting enough. You really know how to keep a guy on his toes," he adds, throwing in a weak chuckle. Steve's legs have stopped trembling, so he picks out another slice of pizza. It's gone cold, but whatever. It'll taste the same.

"Not sure where I was going with that," Steve says after finishing off the cold slice. "I guess my point is — don't stay cooped up in your mind for too long. Max needs you. You can't leave her now. And if you wanna, I dunno, talk or something… I've never been possessed by an extraterrestrial, but I've seen some shit. 

"You suck, by the way," Steve adds before he can forget. "And I'm never gonna forget the way you went after Lucas for no reason, and how you beat me to a pulp on the ground, but you're not a total shithead. I know you were going to do something stupid and sacrifice yourself to the Mind Flayer. So, thanks for that. 

"But it's not over yet, Hargrove. You gotta come back sometime. Do it for Max," Steve says softly. "It's beating her up inside to see you like this. Don't let the Mind Flayer win, Hargrove. Not now that it's gone."

-

He dreams that Hargrove’s awake.

They're facing each other, it's nighttime, and Hargrove is smoking a cig. He's leaning against a brick wall, Steve against a lamp pole. The smoke billows around Hargrove; the only things visible through the thick veil are the red glow of the burn and his sharp, blue eyes.

He takes a deep drag and blows the cloud in Steve's face, making him cough as he just laughs, shaking out his cig and chuckling to himself and stepping forward —

And Steve wakes up to the sun creeping over the horizon.

-

Not intending to back out on his promise to Max, Steve goes back the next evening to check on Hargrove. He doesn't bring pizza, but he does bring his Walkman.

Putting the headphones as close to Hargrove's head as possible without actually having to touch him, Steve pops in a tape and just absolutely blasts the music — "Shout," Tears For Fears' newest hit.

"Pretty good, right?" Steve comments, laying back in the bedside chair. Hargrove's still just laying there, chest rising and falling gently. 

Steve just sits there, letting the song play as he watches Hargrove sleep. Which, out of context, sounds strange. But, honestly? It's nice, watching Hargrove like this. Not entirely blank, but _ content_. Not his manic, sadistic version of happy, but something more genuine.

_ It's sad he has to be unconscious for it_, Steve thinks, gaze drifting over Hargrove's smooth, sunkissed face. With Hargrove _ not _looking like he wants Steve dead, Steve can see why the girls in high school giggled when Hargrove walked down the halls. Steve wouldn't call many guys pretty, but in the flickering lights of Hawkins General Hospital, with his golden hair spread across the pillow like a soft halo, Hargrove almost looks it.

The song ends, and Steve takes back his Walkman and leaves.

-

He dreams that Hargrove’s awake.

Nighttime. Hargrove is smoking a cig. Hargrove leans against a brick wall, Steve against a lamp pole. He's watching Steve with his sharp, blue eyes — Steve watches him right back, not batting an eyelash.

Hargrove licks his lips, dragging his tongue slowly like he's trying to prove something. He takes a deep drag of the cig. He still hasn't taken his predatory eyes off Steve. He's starting to feel like a bug under a microscope — it's like Hargrove can see all of him. Steve wonders what he thinks, if he likes what he sees.

Hargrove blows the cloud of cigarette smoke in Steve's face and laughs softly to himself when Steve coughs. He steps forward, tossing the cig carelessly to the ground as he just saunters — and Steve tenses up, sure he's just looking for another fight —

but Steve wakes up, half-hard, and the sun is already there.

-

When he goes in on Sunday evening, Steve is at a loss.

"Hey," Steve says quietly.

Hargrove, of course, doesn't say anything back.

"It's funny," Steve says, but he isn't laughing, "but I just realized that I can't stop dreaming about you. I guess you've traumatized me more than I thought. Well done, Hargrove."

He sits in the quiet for a little, trying to decide on his next words. Hargrove's chest is still on its steady rhythm. _ Up, down… up, down… _

"This whole summer, I've been forced to rewatch you nearly die, over and over on a loop. I don't know what El told you, but I saw you walk towards the Mind Flayer. I _ saw _ you reach out to that thing and challenge it." He runs a hand through his hair, ignoring how sweaty his palms have gotten. "I don't know what you were thinking, I just thought — _I can't let anyone die. _And you were included in 'anyone'. And I'd finally won a fight, and with a Russian soldier, of all people… and I guess I was just feeling lucky, but the Mind Flayer still got a hit in.

"The nurses say it’s just a scratch across the belly," Steve adds. "Nothing fatal. I mean, you lost a lot of blood, but the hospital was able to sort it out pretty quickly. And you should've woken up weeks ago…" Steve trails off, combing his hair back with his fingers.

"I guess," Steve starts and stops. "C’mon, you're still alive, Hargrove. You've still got a life ahead of you. You just need to come back to it."

Steve supposes that if this were a big screen drama, then this is the part when Hargrove wakes up with a sudden gasp, swears off all evil deeds, and declares that he'll lead the life of a quiet, generous, kind man. Maybe Steve gets a tearful hug amidst the plenty of emotions going around. Max bursts in through the doors and everyone jumps for joy, and the nurses declare a medical miracle before letting Hargrove rejoin the great, big world as a changed man.

But this is real life.

Hargrove's eyes open when Steve isn't looking, and Steve swallows a scream and nearly falls out of his chair in shock when he lifts his head to see Hargrove's frighteningly clear blue eyes focused on his own.

-

Max and her mom and stepfather arrive a half-hour later. As soon as she sees him, Max bursts into tears and clings to her older brother's sheets as the parents stand in the doorway with shock.

Steve slips out the door in the chaos. One of the nurses asks him to confirm how long Hargrove’s been awake and he fumbles through a vague answer, brain too foggy to be of any use.

As he turns down the hallway, he hesitates.

Hargrove is still watching him. Unblinking, his mouth tiredly quirks into a smirk, and, somehow, he just barely winks.

A chill runs down Steve’s spine, and he leaves in a rush.

-

He dreams that they’re back in the Hawkins High showers.

Steve’s trying not to look at Hargrove, and Hargrove’s trying to get Steve to look at him. Hargrove’s shiny with sweat and steam, and he grins, the tip of his tongue held between his teeth, as he calls Steve “pretty boy” and leans up against him. Neither of them is wearing anything. He leans in and his hard-on presses against Steve’s thigh, slips between, and Steve’s hard too, and Hargrove’s face is in front of his, suddenly, and his eyes are closing and Steve’s are too, and it’s all too fast — he’s so dizzy, heady with arousal, dulling his senses and he can feel Hargrove’s heartbeat — _buh-bum, buh-bum, buh-bum —_ and his hot breath against his lips, coaxing them open, sharp teeth and firm fingers and —

Steve forces himself awake with a gasp. He sits up, tries to shove off the covers clinging to his sticky legs — and realizes he’s covered in sweat and cum.


	2. a place unknown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ([chapter title](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YYZ60etbU_0))

****He babysits Dustin the next night after work.

He'd almost forgotten that Mrs. Henderson wanted him over until she'd called to ask why he was nearly ten minutes late. Steve then may (or may not!) have _ forgotten _ to stop at a couple (only five) stop signs on the road to the Henderson's.

Luckily, Mrs. Henderson is a really sweet lady, and she just shoves a Tupperware of homemade lasagna in his hands before kissing her son's curls goodbye and heading off to ladies' night with the jazzercise club.

“Dinner?” Steve asks Dustin, shaking the Tupperware around. 

“That’s all yours, I already ate,” Dustin informs him, rubbing his stomach uncomfortably. He wanders off to go find _ The Empire Strikes Back_, which they were supposed to watch a while back but had forgotten.

Steve just shrugs and pops the container in the microwave, watching it spin around as Dustin makes a fuss in the room over. He peeks in to make sure the kid’s doing okay at one point, but he’s wrestling with their newest cat and Steve is pretty sure he doesn’t want to get involved. There’s a chance he’s allergic to cat fur.

So he just eats lasagna in the kitchen alone. It’s kinda funny — Dustin’s house never feels empty even though it’s just Mrs. Henderson, Dustin, and their cats. When Steve eats in the kitchen of his own house, he feels oddly guilty. But here, in Dustin’s house, it feels normal.

“Hey, Harrington, eat at the table!”

“Yes, Mom,” Steve says, a little taken aback by Dustin’s attitude. He plops into a chair anyway. “Geez. Sorry.”

“You just looked a little too thoughtful eating there all alone,” Dustin explains, plucking his cat off the floor and taking the seat next to Steve. “Anyway, I heard Billy woke up?”

“Yeah.” Steve picks around at the lasagna, appetite suddenly gone. Flashes of his weird dream — _shower, sweat, steam, hard —_ flicker through his thoughts and he tries to ignore how hot his face feels. He is _ not _ going to getting a fucking hard-on at the Henderson’s. Stupid hormones, stupid wet dreams. “Yep, yeah. I was there.”

“No shit, Max told me already,” Dustin snorts, like this fact should’ve been perfectly obvious. The cat hops onto the table and Steve pulls his lasagna closer on instinct. “So? What was it like?" 

“Uh…” Steve scratches his head. _ Terrifying. Blue. Chaotic and chilling. _“He opened his eyes when I wasn’t looking. It was kind of freaky, actually.”

“Did you scream?” 

“No,” Steve lies.

“You totally did,” Dustin says confidently. “Anyway, when’s he getting out of the hospital for good?”

“No idea. Probably at least a week? I dunno, never known a person in a coma before."

"Yeah, same," Dustin says, scratching his cat absentmindedly. "Did he say anything when he woke up?"

"Sure, he asked me how my day was."

"Wow, really?" 

"No."

"I _ know_, dickhead," Dustin says forcefully. "I was being _ sarcastic_. Whatever. Think you'll go back and see him?"

Steve snaps the Tupperware lid back on. "No, why would I do that?"

"I dunno," Dustin says. "But I'd probably go crazy if the only person I saw every day was Max."

"Didn’t you used to like her?"

“I’m with _ Suzie _ now.”

“Doesn’t mean you have to hate on Max now,” Steve comments, forcing a forkful of lasagna in his mouth. “But don’t worry about him, kid, Hargrove’ll be fine.” 

"What about you?" 

Steve swallows the pasta. "What about me?" It comes out a little more biting than he'd intended, but Dustin remains unfazed.

"You've been going to the hospital every day for the past couple weeks," Dustin says, in a weirdly nice tone. "And I know having a job and hanging out with middle schoolers every day isn't the most fun for a high school graduate. And with Jonathan gone and the Wheelers M.I.A…."

Dustin’s too smart for his own good. "You trying to set me up on a playdate, Henderson?"

"Maybe," Dustin says, a toothless grin sneaking across his face.

Steve shakes his head, but he lets himself smile. "C'mon, let's watch some lightsaber battles."

-

Steve works late on Tuesday. He and Robin close up the arcade a little early, though, since Keith left them in charge so he could go on a date. Steve had helped him sort out an outfit and comb his hair, and according to Robin the girl's a huge nerd so Steve's confident that they're going to have a great time. Lucky guy. 

"How about you?" Steve teases Robin. "Got a hot date for a hot summer evening?" 

"Hmm, I'd actually say it's pretty breezy tonight," Robin quips. She grunts and tosses the garbage bag into the dumpster. (Steve's just there for moral support.)

"That point notwithstanding," Steve supplies. 

She dusts off her hands and pretends to mull it over. "Nope," Robin says decidedly. "I am rewatching _ Raiders of the Lost Ark _ with my parents though." 

"Good choice. Indy's cool."

"Marion's hot," Robin counters.

"Absolutely," Steve heartily agrees.

She just smiles and goes back to lock the front door. Keith claims he trusts only her with the keys, which is dumb because Steve's locked up the arcade plenty of times before with zero problems besides that last time with the raccoon. "What about you? Any plans?"

Steve's mistake is that he hesitates. And that he sucks at lying.

"Going back to the hospital?" Robin asks softly. 

"Maybe."

She watches him carefully. "I think it's a good idea," she says. "For you and for him."

That's enough to reassure Steve. When they go to head their separate ways, he misses the turn going back to his empty house.

-

"Is there anyone else here to see Billy Hargrove?" Steve asks the receptionist nervously. 

Pursing her lips in annoyance, she says, "Hold on, some kid's here," into the telephone and starts flipping nonchalantly through the clipboard on her desk. Her eyes flit back up to him. "Seems not. Are you family?"

"Uh," Steve says. "Nope. I'm a, uh, friend."

"Sure," the receptionist mutters under her breath. "Well. Maybe seeing a friendly face'll do him good. He's been refusing to sleep."

And with that, she points him down the hall and it feels like, suddenly, there's no turning back.

-

Steve feels a little dumb, but he's never really been one for overthinking, except where Nancy was concerned. Maybe that's where it went wrong — a combination of him both over- and under-thinking her. Of obsessing over how she felt without ever really taking a long enough look at her to figure it out.

He was a shitty boyfriend in high school and a shitty friend, too. Sometimes he wonders what Tommy and Carol are doing — no doubt packing their bags for Ivy Leagues. _ He _ ditched _ them_, yeah, but they’d spent years messing around and talking about nonsense and learning how to laugh at one another. It's a lot to say goodbye to, even if it'd seemed like very little at the time.

This time around, Steve promises himself, he’s going to be better. Robin and the kids deserve better.

-

Steve knocks on the door before he enters. Hargrove doesn't answer. Steve can't help but cross his fingers that he’s passed out of his own volition.

He opens the door quietly, slowly.

"Pretty boy," a tired voice croaks, and Steve’s stomach drops. 

It's Hargrove, looking like shit smeared along the asphalt. He tries to smirk, but there's neither acid in his smile nor wildfire in his eyes. He just looks tired, barely able to move in his gurney.

Steve nods, hovering in the doorway. "Yeah. Don't cream your pants."

Hargrove chuckles, this time able to bat at his chest weakly as if to say, _ Wow, what a real knee-slapper! _"I remember that." 

"Great memories," Steve says dryly.

"The hell are you doing here, Harrington?" Hargrove tries for a drawl but his voice is still raspy. "Come to gloat over my broken body?"

"C’mon, man." Steve hates it when Hargrove gets under his skin and so instead tries to joke it off. "I’m not an asshole. Like you."

“That sounds like a gloat to me."

“It’s a fact, man.” 

“Never said you were wrong.”

“Just a hypocrite.”

“Not the same thing,” Hargrove says.

Yeah. Sure. Steve can’t argue with a guy who’s hit rock-bottom. 

They watch each other carefully even as the room shifts with something they can’t name. It feels lighter, though Steve can’t help but feel like he’s only deactivated the first mine in the field.

“Thanks for…” Hargrove shrugs, half-hearted, but Steve knows they’re both thinking of Starcourt. “I dunno. I’m not saying it again, though.”

Steve snorts, toes the ground with his sneakers. “That was a shitty whatever-that-was. But don’t worry about it. Seriously. I was just… I wasn’t thinking, I was just doing, and — y’know? Instincts." 

"Yeah, whatever," Hargrove mutters. He lifts his arm to point vaguely at the monitor by his bedside. "It's these fucking drugs, man. Can't help spilling my guts and shit everywhere, physically and mentally."

"Give me a heads-up if you're gonna vomit," Steve requests politely. “Or if you need a bedpan.”

“I’m supposed to be an asshole, right? Maybe I’ll just take a shit in the bed.” 

“Then you’d have to sit in your own shit,” Steve reminds him. 

“Not for long.”

Steve just shakes his head in disbelief. “Ri-_ight_, okay, just keep shitting yourself for the next few days.”

“Week,” Billy corrects. It’s the opposite of enthusiastic. Unenthusiastic. 

“That’s not too long.”

"It is when you’re sitting in a damn jail. I just wanna get out of here," Hargrove says, staring at the window. It’s too dark to see anything. "I wanna get in my car and just keep driving and leave this shithole behind."

"Big words for the man who insists on shitting himself," Steve comments, leaning against the wall. 

"I’m serious," Hargrove says. "I’ve got plans. And the nurses are wrong — I could drive right now if I wanted.”

“What about college?” Had Hargrove gotten into a college? Steve can’t remember; he hadn’t wanted to hear everyone’s news as soon as it’d become clear he wasn’t getting any acceptances.

“The trip would just be the rest of summer. It was supposed to be earlier, but, well. Got delayed.”

“So I've heard,” Steve says.

Hargrove barks out a short, bitter laugh, which turns into a hacking cough. He waves Steve off when he steps forward out of concern. "I'm fine, Harrington, jeez. I'm not some kid you gotta babysit. Speaking of," and he coughs again, sort of into his chest since his hands are too weak to even cover his mouth, "where's Max?"

"Uh." Steve feels guilty. Maybe he should've swung by before driving over to the hospital. Of course Max would want to see her older brother again, especially now that he isn’t unconscious. "I guess… I guess I just assumed she would've visited you today already."

"Nope," Hargrove says, popping the 'p' like a gumball. "Whatever, I'm not surprised."

Steve mentally debates telling Hargrove about him and Max visiting. Maybe Hargrove would just be a little annoyed that his enemy was driving his little sister to visit his sleeping body every day. Or, on the other hand, maybe Hargrove would be extremely creeped out and fly into a rage, sending him into undue stress that could mess up his recovery. 

God, they barely know each other. What is Steve _ doing _ here? 

“Hey. Earth to Harrington. Hello?”

"Hm?" Steve coughs awkwardly into his hand. "Oh, um, I can bring her by next time."

Hargrove raises an eyebrow. "Nah. Don't bother. Don't want her to see me like this."

"Like what? Like 'recovering'?"

"Weak," Hargrove says.

Steve wants to ask, _ But it's okay that I do? _then thinks better of it. Instead, he asks, "Hey, anything I can do for you? Want me to grab some clothes or something from your home?"

"I don't need anything from you."

"C'mon, man, there's gotta be something I can do."

"And why the fuck would you want to do anything more for me?"

This statement gives them both pause.

"'More'?" Steve echoes.

Hargrove hisses, and turns as far away from Steve as he can manage in a rush that’s painful to watch. "I'm _ tired_. Your babysitting gig's over."

"This isn't ba—" 

Hargrove's face is flushed red when he yells, "Fuck _ off_, Harrington!" It makes him cough, and he beats his chest a couple times as if to force it away.

Steve, heart heavy, leaves.

-

Steve comes back on Wednesday.

He brings his dad’s old copy of _ The Fellowship of the Ring_. It's dog-eared and water-stained to hell, but it was Steve’s favorite book in middle school. Not that he’s ever told anyone; Tommy and Carol would’ve laughed their asses off and it definitely isn’t information the kids need to know. He'd nearly forgotten it was stashed under his bed until he'd started manic-cleaning his room the night before to ward off late-night stress.

“Steve Harrington,” he announces to the receptionist.

"Here to see Hargrove?"

Steve nods distractedly. "Yeah, um, I'm just gonna head —"

"You do that," the receptionist says, eyeing him suspiciously. Steve thinks it's probably because he looks like he's on the verge of collapse.

The linoleum floor sounds strangely loud and muffled beneath his feet, his sneakers squeaking along every now and then. The flickering overhead lights do nothing to take the edge off; he wipes the sweat off his brow and ignores how heavy his eyelids are.

"Hargrove," he says by way of greeting as he steps inside.

The man in question sits straight up in the gurney, electric blue eyes flicking over to him. He looks about as awful as Steve feels, with dark circles and his hair drenched with sweat. "Pretty boy. You usually wander around hospitals in the dead of night?" 

"Seeing as it's only eight o'clock, I'm afraid not," Steve says dryly. He walks over to hand Hargrove the book, trying to shake off his awkwardness. "I just thought you might, um, want a distraction. And it's the longest book I own, so it'll keep you distracted for a while. Sorry if you've already read it.” 

Hargrove takes the book from him gingerly, their fingers brushing just slightly in the process. His hand feels cold. "Huh." He flips it around, drinking in the brightly colored front and back covers, then tosses it aside. "That all you wanted to do?"

"You're welcome," Steve says, a little annoyed — but to be honest, that'd gone a lot better than he'd anticipated. He'd half-expected the book to come flying right back at him and was fully prepared to keep his nose unbroken at all costs. "And yeah, I guess. Don't want me here?"

"Just wondering what plans King Steve has for a fine summer's evening," Hargrove drawls, crossing his arms and giving Steve a once-over. "Though now that I'm taking a good look, you look like hell ran you over. Nothing, then?"

"I look and feel like ass because I work at the arcade," Steve offers by way of explanation. It's not a lie.

Hargrove barks a laugh. "Yeah — it's stressful, but c’mon. What, some hot chick dump your skinny ass?"

It’s a painful, split-second reminder of Nancy. "No. Just didn't make any plans tonight." 

"Ah," Hargrove says. "Got it. It's another round of 'Let's Watch Billy Suffer In The Doctor's Lair For An Hour And Get Off On How Fucking Useless He Looks'. Yeah, that's my favorite time of day, too." 

Steve stares at him. "This again? I just gave you my favorite book, man!"

Hargrove’s eyes are sharp with mania. "Maybe you like to play with your food."

"I'm not here to play your stupid games.”

"But they’re so fun."

Steve snorts, flops down in the bedside chair. God, he's exhausted already and it's only been a couple minutes. And an entire night without sleep. "For you, maybe."

Hargrove’s got that funny, inscrutable look on his face again, eyes flicking down to the chair. His brow's furrowed like his brain’s running a mile a minute. "Sure, princess."

Steve feels a little worried that he’s missing something, but figures it isn’t worth dwelling on. Trying to navigate Hargrove’s twisted maze of a mind is more trouble than it’s worth.

"So what’ve you been up to?" Steve asks like a normal person would.

Hargrove rolls the blankets between his fingers but doesn't take his eyes off Steve. It makes him feel tingly. "Physical therapy."

"That makes sense." Steve cracks a hesitant grin. "The nurses got you doing jazzercise to keep in shape?"

Hargrove snorts. "If they make me wear a leotard, I swear to God I'll burn the whole hospital down."

"I can bring the matches," Steve offers.

"The perks of being free."

"Yeah," Steve laughs. "Waiting on you and enabling your pyromania." 

"You mean that's not the life you've always dreamed of?"

"Well, guess I'd imagined I'd be more ‘Alfred Pennyworth’ than ‘sad teen’."

Hargrove wrinkles his nose. "Isn't that guy super old?

"...yeah. But he’s badass in his own way."

He shrugs. "As long as I'm Batman."

Steve makes a face.

“Fuck you, man,” Hargrove laughs. “You made the reference, I’m just filling the blanks in.”

“Right, it’s all my fault.” 

Hargrove just makes a noise of agreement.

Steve leans back in the hospital chair, a little happy with how okay this is. Now that Hargrove doesn’t have to swagger down high school hallways with his shirt unbuttoned and hair tousled just right to prove himself, he’s a pretty tolerable guy.

Actually, Steve has to admit, he’s kind of funny.

“Hey, babysitter?”

“Yeah?”

“What do you do to fall asleep?”

Steve looks over at him curiously. “Having trouble?”

“No,” Hargrove says aggressively. “Just wondering. What, you lift weights or sweat it out on the bed —”

It’s Steve’s turn to aggressively say, “_No_.” He nods over at the book between them. “It’s funny, I used to read that book to put me to sleep.” 

“You gave me the most boring book you could think of as a gift?” Hargrove asks with incredulity 

“No! I thought you’d genuinely enjoy it —”

“You think I like boring books?” 

“Stop.” _ God_, his sleep-deprived brain cannot deal with this. It’s gonna melt out of his ears. “...Okay, yeah, the first half is kinda boring. But the second half is about monster-fighting… I think…”

“I’ve had enough monster-fighting for a lifetime.” 

They both go quiet at that. Steve ignores the way his heart flips in his chest and how Billy’s knuckles are white around his hospital blanket.

“Okay,” Steve says eventually. “Then we’ll only read the first half.”

“‘We’?”

“Yeah,” Steve starts cautiously. Hargrove may be tolerable, but he’s also a bear that’s staring you down and foaming at the mouth but its fur’s matted and you kinda feel bad, like you have to hand-feed it berries for some reason. “You got a problem with that?”

“Yeah, about ten of ‘em,” Hargrove says. 

“I’m just trying to do something nice for you —”

“I’m not a _ kid _ you have to _ babysit —_”

“So you’ve said! But you’re acting like a little baby right now!” Steve's voice is rising, his muscles tense.

“Just because I’m confined to this gurney doesn’t mean I can’t knock your fucking teeth out —”

"I'm not fighting a guy tucked into bed —"

"Why? Scared you'll lose? Scared I'll split your pretty lips?"

Steve can feel his face burning. His fists are clenched; when had that happened? “Because it's fucked up!" 

"What do you know about ‘fucked up’?" Hargrove laughs; it’s low, cruel, and taunting. “You ever been possessed? Ever been forced to question all your memories, everything you’ve ever thought or felt? I’ve been fucked up, fucked through inside and out,” he says, voice wound tight, “and I can’t even begin to explain how.”

He hits his bedside table clumsily, uselessly, with enough trembling force to send a small glass of water crashing to the ground. They both watch the puddle crawl across the floor in heavy silence. 

“It feels insane,” Steve says quietly, “doesn’t it?”

“No shit,” Hargrove says.

“I found a secret Russian base with my co-worker, the kid I babysit, and the kid’s friend’s little sister,” Steve confides. “And then the Russians tortured me, drugged me and my co-worker up, and the kids had to save us.”

He huffs a half-laugh. “What were the Russians doing?”

“Opening a portal for your buddy,” he answers honestly, tapping his head so Hargrove would understand.

“I see,” Hargrove says.

Hargrove gives him a look-over. Then he leans back in the gurney and looks up at the ceiling, expression closed. His face is so still that Steve could count his freckles. Since when did Hargrove have freckles? "So, you gonna read or what?" 

"Really? That's — That's it?" 

"I — just get to it before I change my mind."

Steve moves slowly but he complies, picking up the worn novel and clears his throat.

"_When Mr. Bilbo Baggins of Bag End announced that he would shortly be celebrating his eleventy-first birthday with a party of special magnificence, there was much talk and excitement in Hobbiton…_" 

"Hold on,” Billy interrupts, already irritated, “what the fuck is Hobbiton? 'Bag End'? Was the author on crack, Harrington?"

-

When Steve wakes up, he realizes that, strangely enough, he'd slept through the entire night without a single nightmare for the first time in over a month. 

And also that he's still in the hospital.

A flash of panic hits Steve at the sight before him — Hargrove with a hand under his gurney pillow, mouth wide open as he snores. His golden hair looks tangled to shit.

_Whatever_, Steve tells himself, pushing the blanket off as he quickly tries to pull himself together so he can leave —

…_blanket?_

He doesn't remember bringing a blanket, much less putting it on.

Steve picks it up and feels it — it’s definitely hospital quality. Maybe the nurse brought it in?

He drops it on the gurney like it's on fire and tries to ignore how it smells faintly of Hargrove.

Steve sneaks out before Hargrove can wake up. But he makes sure to mark where they'd left off (which was only about two pages into the second chapter), just in case.

-

"You had a sleepover with Billy?"

"Yep, we gossiped about girls and drank beer until sunrise."

"Really?"

Steve laughs and leans across the sink to ruffle an annoyed Dustin's hair. "No, Henderson."

"Fine, then what'd you do?"

Steve mulls it over while rinsing dinner off his pasta bowl. "Fought. Read _ Lord of the Rings_. Then I accidentally fell asleep." 

"Whoa, whoa," Dustin interrupts, an accusing finger suddenly pressed right in Steve's face, "whoa. You read Billy 'King of the Asshats' Hargrove _ the _ Sacred Text, and the ghost of Mr. J.R.R. Tolkien hasn't murdered you yet?"

"Geez," Steve laughs, nudging Dustin. He dumps the bowl on the drying rack. "He's not Sauron or something. He's, uh, Boromir, or some shit. Anyway, why would Tolkien _ not _ want Billy to hear about a nice little town of Dustiebuns-sized people?" 

"Boromir's too good for him," Dustin mumbles sourly. 

Which, uh, okay.

"So what'd you get up to last night?" Steve asks in a transparent attempt to change the subject.

Dustin, good friend that he is, buys into it without a question. "Well, I spent all night talking to Suzie and get this — she's a Trekkie! She's memorized every damn episode title from the first season!"

"Thought you weren’t a fan?"

"Yeah, but Suzie is," Dustin says, confused. 

Mrs. Henderson’s raised a good kid. Steve smiles, and just continues washing the dishes. "So, why not the rest of the seasons?"

"Oh, no, she's just getting started! See, her mom was really into the show, but when she married her dad she had to become a Mormon, so there's this whole complicated story… I’ll just tell you now in case I forget. So, they met at a grocery store in Utah and..."

-

Steve wakes up — in his own house this time, thank God — to the sound of the telephone ringing.

"Hello?" he says thickly, still feeling groggy.

"_What did you do to Billy?_" Max hisses over the line, voice _ way _ too loud for eight o'clock in the morning.

Steve slumps against the wall and pinches his nose. "Sorry, what?"

"B_illy! He's — I'm at the hospital and he won't quit sulking!_

"Not my problem," Steve says, though he's starting to get the odd feeling that it is.

"_It is!_" Max confirms loudly. "'_Cuz I checked and you're the only other person who's seen him all week! So you'd better fix this, Steve!_"

_Click._

Steve holds the phone out in front of him and just stares at it. It's way too early to process any of what just happened.

-

Robin catches him constantly zoning out at work and shoves his shoulder — hard! — every single time she does. Tough love, she explains. 

Steve was not built for tough love, but he is feeling extremely disoriented. So he puts up with it. 

Still, Keith puts him on janitor duty — in direct contradiction with the schedule — just for 'slacking off'. "It's toilet scrubbing time," Keith says by way of apology as he hands over the cursed yellow rubber gloves. 

Even with only toilet-cleaning to look forward to, Steve dreads the end of the day. It almost makes him want to drag out work — almost. Dealing with a moody Hargrove (whatever that means) is probably marginally better than sniffing shit and piss all night. 

Robin, of course, has caught onto his mood. Steve needs to stop befriending overly-perceptive people; he swears she’ll be the cause of all his hair falling out at 40. 

"What's up?" Robin says, plopping down next to him on the street curb. Steve hasn't been able to drag himself into the car yet. 

"The sky," Steve says.

"Dick." She bumps shoulders with him as if to say, _ Try again. _

Steve crosses his arms and says, "I think I accidentally became friends with Billy Hargrove."

"Oh, God. The Asshole Adonis? The Golden Californian, Best of the West?”

"What?" 

Robin shrugs. "Band kids like nicknaming dickheads." 

"Um," Steve says. "Okay. But yeah. Accidentally." 

She pulls a face. "How do you accidentally befriend someone?"

"Well, how did this —" and he motions between them vigorously, "—even happen?"

"Russians," Robin says solemnly. 

"Pure circumstance," Steve suggests at the same time.

"Mhm. So what’s so different about Hairgrove?"

Offended, Steve almost wants to ask, _ I thought I was The Hair? _ but smothers the instinct. "I mean, he was a dick. He beat me to shit and nearly throttled Lucas, and I'm pretty sure the kid's still scared of him… And wow, he was such an asshole in high school. I mean, the way he'd swagger around with his cigarettes and stupid open shirts, like he owned the place —" 

"Sounds a little like someone we used to know," Robin says softly.

Steve cringes at the reminder. "Okay, but I didn't beat up kids."

"You kinda, uh, let your friends brand Wheeler a slut. Very publicly. And you smashed Byers’ camera."

Before Steve can wallow too far into guilt, Robin hurriedly adds, "But! Notice that I used the past tense. You're a really good guy, Steve. You're compassionate and loyal. You care a lot about your friends and it does you a lot of credit. I mean, you were willing to be tortured by Russians so Dustin and Erica could get away," Robin assures him, completely and utterly sincere. She puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes; it’s a comforting weight.

"But they ended up saving us later," Steve mumbles.

"Yeah? Which was awesome as fuck. That doesn't discredit anything you did, Steve." Robin sighs and just rubs his shoulder a little awkwardly. Nancy would've hugged him, Steve can't help but think — and wow, isn't that a mood-lifter. "My point is: You were able to turn your whole _ thing _ around with a little positive influence and I think you can do the same for Ponyboy." 

Steve blinks. "'Ponyboy'?"

"Oh,” she says, brightening up. “It's 'cuz his mane makes him look like a wild stallion, which could be taken as an innuendo give his —" here Robin just kinda nods awkwardly, "—er, proclivities, and because, 'Stay gold, Ponyboy.' Because his hair and his tan are kinda golden. Funny, right? I came up with that one."

Steve shakes his head in disbelief, but the cogs are starting to shift back into place in his head. Robin's smart as hell. What would he do without her? 

He picks himself up off the curb, then offers her a hand to do the same. "If you say so, nerd."

"Thank you," she says primly, taking his hand. They both manage a smile this time.

-

The receptionist watches him stumble through the doors and just heaves a long-suffering sigh. "Steve Harrington here to see Hargrove?"

"Thanks," Steve says, flashing her the most charming smile he can muster before hurrying down the hall. (She looks a little flattered so he's pretty sure they're on good terms now.)

He opens Hargrove's door before he can convince himself it's a bad idea. 

The man himself looks up immediately, scowls and looks away. Though Steve’s relieved to see some color back in his cheeks. "Goddammit. Max called you here?"

Steve nods.

"Whatever. You can leave. She's just seeing things and overreacting and all that girls her age do." 

"You're saying Max called me at a ridiculously early hour because… puberty?"

"Yes," Hargrove snaps.

"Hey," Steve says.

Hargrove just grunts and turns on his side in the gurney. Excellent — he's looking more mobile, too.

"If you're feeling shitty — I mean, that’s understandable. This hospital sucks. And your room doesn't even have a view. Though I guess we should be feeling lucky it's got a window."

Hargrove doesn't respond. 

Steve tries again. "And it's also gotta suck that you lost half a summer to a blockbuster monster —"

"What do you want," Hargrove snaps, flinching violently in the gurney away from him.

"Just wanted to check in," Steve mumbles.

"Doing a shitty job of it. What do you wanna hear? 'Thanks, Harrington, you've cured me with your carefree optimism!' 'Geez, what would I do without you, Steve? You're my hero!' 'Cuz you're sure as shit not getting any more gratitude from me."

Hargrove flips around and turns his wild eyes on Steve and it's like facing down headlights. "What’s your play here, Harrington? You keeping watch for the kids — trying to check if the Mind Flayer really left me alone? You gonna bash my skull in with your freaky bat, Harrington?" 

"We’ve been over this, Hargrove," Steve says, tired.

"It’s all bullshit," Hargrove hisses. "You didn't give a shit about me before this Mind Flayer _ fuck _ fucked around in my head, and you sure as hell don’t give a shit about me now."

“Where the fuck did this come from?”

“What am I supposed to think, huh? When you prance in here, and read to me like I’m a baby — leave without —” Hargrove clenches his jaw, shifts restlessly. “I don’t — you’re —”

“Maybe,” Steve says, and he’s trying really hard not to let his voice crack, fucking hell, Hargrove is stressful as shit, “I’m just trying to be your friend.” 

“Yeah, right,” Hargrove sneers. “Go fuck yourself.”

That’s it; he’s pissed off. “Guess who your only visitors were while you were in a coma,” Steve says harshly. “Fucking _ guess _.” He storms back over to the door and rips it open, half-in and half-out the doorway. “Me and Max and Lucas — the two guys you beat up plus your sister. And Dustin a couple times,” Steve amends, a little more gently. “But he stayed in the lobby, mostly, so that doesn’t count.”

Hargrove doesn’t say anything. 

“So _ you _ can go fuck off,” Steve finishes before scrambling over himself to get the hell out of that tiny room.

The last thing he hears is Hargrove yell, "About time you grew some fucking balls, Harringt—"

-

Keith lets him take Saturday off to hang out with the kids.

("I'm sure I'll understand when I have children of my own," Keith had mused on the telephone.

"...how many dates have you and Kathy been on?"

"Two. Why?")

Steve eases the car around the corner. “So what’s the deal with this pile of dirt?”

"It's called Weathertop!" Dustin complains from shotgun, throwing his hands up in disbelief. "I've told you this, like, twenty times! At least!"

"So you're all hobbits and I'm Aragorn?"

Lucas grins. "Can we call your car 'Brego' then?"

"No!"

"Yes!" Dustin crows.

Steve's almost tempted to just yank the car into a u-turn and drive them straight home. He suppresses the urge and opts, instead, to roll his eyes, pulling up as close to the dirt as he's willing to risk. "Twerps. We meeting anyone else here?"

"Max said she'd skateboard over," Lucas says, squinting down the road as he clambers out the back.

Steve hops out, exchanges a look with Dustin. "Any luck with Mike?" 

"Nope," the kid says. He fiddles with the brim of his Camp Knowhere cap anxiously. "Haven't heard from him in a while. We tried knocking on his door yesterday, but Mrs. Wheeler said that he and Nancy were out."

Nancy had gone out? "Out where?"

"Didn't say. Probably to write love letters to the Byers’." 

Steve forces himself smile. "You still write to Suzie?"

"Every week."

"Good, good. And her parents think you're just exchanging, uh, math facts?"

"More like advice on engineering and wiring more complex and efficient radios," Dustin corrects. "But sure. It's basically math."

He slaps the brim of Dustin's hat. ("Ow!") "Not _ my _ math. But that's good, glad your romance is blossoming." 

"Have you met anyone?" Dustin asks him, half joking and half genuinely curious. 

Steve thinks of his odd dreams and says, decidedly, "No, 'course not. You'd be the first to know, Henderson."

"Even before Robin?

"Robin's right after," Steve promises.

"And then Erica."

Steve thinks about divulging his love life to a 10 year old and cringes.

"No Scoops Troop member can be left behind!" Dustin insists as Lucas asks, "Did someone say my sister's name?"

Luckily, Max shreds her way down the road just in time to spare Steve the embarrassment of promising to tell a 10 year old who he's dating.

"MAD MAX!"

"STALKER!"

-

It ends up a very nice day.

Being the excellent babysitter he is, Steve had prepared a picnic prior to driving to Weathertop. It's kinda crappy and low-budget, but they all got to eat sandwiches and chug Capri Sun, which is all you can really ask for out of a picnic. 

He flops onto his couch at eight o'clock in the evening, fully prepared to pass out there and then. Shit, he hasn't even eaten dinner yet. Mrs. Henderson had given him a whole thing of baked pasta and yet it feels like so much work to heat it up. It'd already taken so much out of him to put it in the fridge.

He presses a hand over his eyes and sighs.

-

The next time he opens his eyes, it's a quarter past one in the morning. He rolls over, bones heavy, and thinks of the baked pasta. Better late than never, he supposes.

Just as he's unenthusiastically finished about half a bowl of reheated pasta, the doorbell rings.

He ignores it the first time. Steve's so exhausted that it's possible that it was an auditory hallucination. He's heard that's a thing.

But it rings again, and again and very violently at that, like someone's slamming their palm into the ringer.

"CALM DOWN, I'M COMING!" Steve shouts, voice cracking with disuse as he throws on a sweatshirt and finger-combs his hair, annoyance building in his stomach. He fumbles through the locks, fingers numb and clumsy, "JESUS, WOULD YOU QUIT —" 

He whips the door open and Billy Hargrove is standing on his fucking doorstep.

Hargrove’s nose is bleeding and his shirt's buttoned out of order. He scowls down at the welcome mat and kicks it aside before spitting out, "Harrington. Wanna be my friend? Pack a bag, we're going to California."

Hargrove lights up a cigarette that he pulled out of his back pocket, but his hands are shaking and he curses loudly when the fire won’t catch. He grunts when it finally does, then looks back at Steve when he realizes he's still standing there.

Steve feels like — and knows he resembles — a gaping fish. 

"Pull it the fuck together, Harrington," Hargrove snaps around the cigarette. He takes a drag and blows some of it back in Steve's face, which is enough to snap him out of the shock.

"Are you insane?" Steve asks, hoarse.

"Maybe," Hargrove says coolly. "Wouldn't you like to know."

"California — that's on the other side of the U.S.!"

"We're in the Midwest, that's the West Coast. It's still the same fucking side.

"It's — What? Whatever, it's still _ far_, man."

"The drive's only three days with breaks."

"Yeah. That's _ far_."

"Geez, the way you're acting you'd think I'd asked you to China," Hargrove mutters, gaze trained fiercely on the ground.

"You might as well have!" Steve hisses. He realizes vaguely that he's still clutching his bowl of baked pasta. "What the hell, Hargrove? It's one in the morning!"

He shrugs. "So?"

"So," Steve says, painfully, "I can't just up and leave 'cause you suddenly got the funny idea of running away to California."

"It’s not sudden. Remember?"

The blood and the bruises really start to sink in. They’re fresh, obviously. Not a broken nose, but someone’s hit it in. His top lip is split, too. And the way his shirt’s wrinkled and his shoulders slump makes Steve think there was some kind of a struggle. 

Hargrove’s good at fighting, Steve remembers. But how’d he get that good? 

Steve takes a deep breath and prays that he’s wrong, that Robin’s perceptiveness hasn’t rubbed off on him. "Hargrove?"

Hargrove's jaw clenches so tight on the cigarette that Steve's afraid, for a ludicrous moment, that he's going to eat it. 

"I can't just _ go back home_," Hargrove says finally. 

It clicks. And it sinks in, and it scares Steve. 

"Okay," he breathes, pulse pounding. "Okay, okay. Okay. You, uh, wanna come in? Take a shower?" 

Hargrove ignores all that, just dragging on his damn cigarette and basking in the heavy smoke. "I want to go to California and I want to know if I've got company so I don’t go insane on the way."

"Is Max safe?" Steve asks quietly.

He just barely winces. "He doesn’t hit — She doesn't get hurt."

"Okay," Steve says. He nods, pretends like his brain hasn't just gone completely to mush. Like he's capable of making a decision. "Right."

He leaves the front door open in case Hargrove changes his mind and waltzes in after all. That's the last thing he remembers deciding to do before he's just placing random t-shirts and jeans in a duffel bag, running on autopilot. Toothbrush, toothpaste, comb, Farrah Fawcett, deodorant, floss. Boxers, socks. The DnD handbook Dustin gave him, the flashlight Dustin had also given him, an extra pair of shoes, all his piggy bank savings. 

And then suddenly he’s locking his front door and opening the Camaro's.

"What're we waiting for?" Steve says, a thrill of adrenaline rushing his body back to life. 

Hargrove’s watching him from behind the wheel. Even with his face bloody like that, he looks like he’s more alive than anything else on Earth. This feels wrong, and dangerous, the worst idea in all the right ways. 

It’s like Steve’s been living in that fuzzy moment after an unsettling dream, where you can’t tell if you’re still asleep or not — and Hargrove’s just shoved him awake.

Hargrove whoops — broken, loud, thrilled, joyous — and Steve shouts into the night, their veins on fire; they go tearing down the foggy, sleepy road and they leave Hawkins behind.


	3. gun on the wall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ([chapter title](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aNdZjLM6hGg))

****Steve watches the sunrise and for the first time in months, he can almost imagine it’s warm.

They're passing through fields of wildflowers, bursting with color across the ocean of green. It makes Steve feel odd — Steve's never seen so many in one place like this.

They pass the fields, driving past some small ponds that Steve's certain would look like Christmas cards if it weren’t summer. It's quiet. The highway’s almost empty this early in the morning; Hargrove's been silent and the radio's just quiet static. Steve can hear all the birds waking each other up, even over the car.

He kind of wants to roll down the window and stick his face out to feel the fresh air. But Hargrove would think it's weird and definitely wouldn't let him touch his car, anyway, so he lets go of the thought and just leans back in his seat, watching the world go by.

They drive through a small patch of trees. They look like birches, all white and skinny. The sun shines through the canopy, bathing the whole thing in an eerie green light.

Steve likes it. It doesn't look like Hawkins forests.

Hargrove's still quiet. He also still looks like he got in a fight with a lawnmower, but he's not as angry or anxious. His grip on the wheel is comfortably slack, a fresh cigarette resting between the fingers of his left hand. Sunglasses cover up undoubtedly bloodshot eyes, but at least he'd cleaned up the nosebleed and split lip at Steve's insistence. 

He's a little hunched over, tense in the shoulders. Steve's not certain if it's because of injuries underneath his shirt or wired adrenaline, but either way, Hargrove needs to take a break.

"Hey, man," Steve says softly, clearing his throat. It’s froggy from disuse. "Hey. Hargrove."

Hargrove grunts and sticks the cigarette back in his mouth, left hand moving to dangle out the window.

"Wanna take turns driving? You've gone straight through the last four hours."

"Don't need your help," Hargrove murmurs, voice smooth and dark as tar.

Steve swallows. "Right, well. I've gotta take a piss, so if we could stop at the next convenience store, that'd be great."

"Any more requests, princess?"

There's a twinge of annoyance at the nickname, but Steve manages to shove down any rude comments. "Nope. That's it."

Hargrove just grunts again, and they drive on in silence until they leave the patch of woods, sun fully risen, and find a 7-Eleven waiting for them right outside.

Hargrove pulls in with a half-amused chuckle, saying, "You're the luckiest bastard in all of Indiana, Harrington."

"Illinois, now," Steve corrects. "Need gas money?"

"We're still half full."

"Sure, but who knows when the next station'll pop up? Better safe than sorry."

Hargrove grunts but pulls in, grudgingly. "You done this before?"

"Sure, I've roadtripped with friends. Never went as far as California though." Steve digs through his pockets for a bill and hands it to Hargrove. "You pay for the gas, I'm gonna find some snacks."

"Get me sunflower seeds," Hargrove orders before turning off the car and heading inside, swagger only slightly hindered by his injuries and four hours of sitting.

Steve stretches as soon as he’s out of the car, muscles aching. The fresh air feels nice, though, and he lets himself take it in for a moment before following Hargrove into the gas station. He grabs Swedish Fish and sour cream Lays, plus the sunflower seeds (gross) and rings them up with the cashier, a young guy who must be around their age.

"You cousins or something?" the guy asks, thumbing to Hargrove leaving the shop as he scrounges around for Steve's change.

Steve almost wants to say, _No, just friends_, but it feels wrong. Like lying. It's almost easier to just agree, flash an exhausted grin and hope the cashier doesn't try and keep talking.

Which means, of course, that he does. "Going to a family reunion? Or running away from one?" He snickers like he's just told a clever joke. "God knows how many weddings I've tried to escape."

"Um, yeah."

The cashier bags up his snacks. "To the first or second?"

"Uh," he glances out the window and Hargrove's already pulled out the gas pump, leaning casually against the tank and flicking cigarette ashes on the dirt, "the second."

"Ha! Knew you two were men after my own heart," the cashier says satisfactorily, tapping his chest knowingly right over his _Ghostbusters_ t-shirt. He’s still got their breakfast in his hand. "Y'know, my mom's a real bitch, always making me dress up and go to all these dumb family reunions all summer. They never end! We're expected to stay so late that I always miss my programs and then I have to watch 'em at Tod's, who's a fine guy but his television's audio quality sucks ass. One day, I swear I'm just gonna go berserk and tell my mom what I really think of her fat ass —"

Steve tries his hardest not to cringe with secondhand embarrassment. "Yep, thanks," he says, grabbing his bag and receipt before hightailing it out of the shop.

"Wait a sec —!" the kids shouts after him, but the door shuts before he can get much else out.

Hargrove watches Steve half-jog his way into the Camaro, grinning wolfishly to himself. "Harrington, Harrington… Made ourselves a new amigo?"

"Shut up and drive," Steve says, but he's too tired to muster any bite, and Hargrove just laughs. He slams the pedal to the metal, though.

-

Three bags of Swedish Fish, Lays, and sunflower seeds and six hours later, Hargrove pulls into a McDonald’s drive-thru. Even though it’s noon, the line’s empty and they just roll straight up to the order window. There’s flies buzzing outside of it. It’s getting hot and sticky, and Steve doesn’t like the way they’re crawling around on the concrete wall.

Hargrove rolls down the window and Steve just prays the flies won’t crawl in.

“Two burgers,” Hargrove orders, giving the cashier a once-over as he slides down his aviator sunglasses. 

She blushes and Steve elbows him with a spark of irritation. What an idiot. “Hey, we need water. And I want cheese on mine. And get some fries.”

“Oh my God, you picky fuck,” Hargrove mutters under his breath, rolling his eyes at the cashier as if to say, _ Can you believe this guy? _ “Make one of those a cheeseburger. We’ll take fries and waters, too.”

“What size —?” the cashier starts to ask, fiddling with her hair.

“Large!” Steve interrupts before Hargrove can speak again. “Thank you, ma’am. That’s all.”

Hargrove groans and pulls the car forward to the next window, sulking as he shoves the stupid sunglasses back up his face.

Steve can’t believe him. “She was, like, three times our age.”

“She looked more thirty than sixty, Jesus.”

“Yeah, well,” Steve says, irked. “It was still gross to have to witness that. Do you have to charm the pants off every woman you meet?"

"Just the pretty ones," Hargrove retorts. "Hey, c'mon, pull out your wallet, you're paying for lunch."

"Like hell I am! Not after having to watch your — your creepy demonstration! Dude, she could've been Nancy's _ mom _ or something —"

"Well, she wasn't Karen, so can you stop dicking around and pull out your damn wallet?"

"_Karen?_"

"Shove it. Wallet."

"No," Steve says adamantly, shoving himself against his seat and crossing his arms. "Absolutely not."

"Sirs?"

It's the cashier with their order. He's got his hand sticking out the drive-thru window expectantly, the other wrapped around the paper bag that holds their lunch.

Steve refuses to look at Hargrove, something uncomfortable crawling around in him that he really doesn't like. Especially since he can't pin down exactly what it is. God, what if he has diarrhea?

"Steve," Hargrove says seriously, voice low and tight. "I don't have the money."

Steve's eyes flit to him before he can stop himself. "What?"

Hargrove's stiff and the cashier is staring.

Steve silently reaches into his pocket to pull out his wallet, fishes around for a bill and tucks it away without another word.

He's still flushed with embarrassment when Hargrove pulls away and tosses his cheeseburger in his lap. 

-

Another two hours on the road and everything's starting to blur together. Steve supposes that's what they get for driving through the Midwest. Just miles and miles of grain and farms and not much else.

Hargrove ended up eating most of the fries, Steve having lost his appetite, but his grip on the steering wheel is surprisingly lacking in grease. Steve's certain that if he was driving his Beemer, the wheel would shine so badly he'd blind another driver by accident.

Hargrove's latest cigarette is nearly out. It's kind of funny — he doesn't have a dollar on him, but he's got an infinite supply of cigarettes. And a decent taste in music. David Bowie is humming on the radio as background noise; Steve can't really make out what he’s singing, but it's not in Russian and it's catchy so he isn't complaining.

It makes him think that there's a lot of things about Hargrove that _ seem _ like they should be obvious and yet aren’t. 

Bored to death, Steve grabs a piece of scrap paper from the car door and a pen he'd shoved in his pocket to start a list.

_ Things I Know About Billy Hargrove: _

He thinks about what he’d decided about Hargrove in high school, crosses them out mentally, and starts from scratch.

  1. _ His name is Billy Hargrove._
  2. _ He's from California._
  3. _ He has a little sister named Max._
  4. _ Max is his stepsister, and Max moved to Hawkins with her mom, so he has a stepmother._
  5. _His dad__ Someone at home beat him up before we left._

Even just writing it out makes Steve uneasy.

  1. _ He's good at basketball._
  2. _ He's good at kegging._
  3. _ He's good at fighting._

Steve winces at all of those. 

  1. _ He's been Mind-flayed _

Steve crosses it out.

  1. _ He's got decent taste in music._
  2. _ Takes care of his appearance. (Hair, shirts, mustache)_

"What if I got a matching mustache?" 

"What?"

Steve yanks his list closer to himself, startled. "Oh, shit, did I say that out loud?"

Hargrove squints at him for a second, then turns back to the empty, stretching road. "Yeah. You thinking about my mustache, Harrington?"

"Maybe," Steve says guiltily.

"Stop it, then. You'll never be able to grow anything, especially not something as cutting edge as mine."

Steve peers at the mustache. "I dunno, seems a bit thin to me. I could probably do it."

"Nope. It's my signature look."

"Plenty of celebrities do the same thing," Steve scoffs. "Isn't the point that it's in fashion?"

Hargrove snorts. "Something _ like mine _ is in fashion. Every man's mustache is his own. Is unique. Like fingerprints."

"So," Steve says, a little confused, "I don't have fingerprints?"

"Yes," Hargrove says.

"Huh."

Steve turns back to his list and scribbles down,

  1. _ Believes that mustaches and fingerprints are equivalent._

"What're you writing down?" Hargrove asks, leaning over even as Steve tries to shove his face away.

"Hey! Eyes on the road!"

-

They pull into a cheap motel around five, which surprises a sleep-addled Steve.

"Hey, princess, wakey-wakey," Hargrove grunts, shoving him on the head and ruining his hair.

"Hands off, I'm coming, jeez." Steve tries to wipe the sleep off his face, vision bleary. He's feeling uncomfortably warm, which is a great start. And also possibly sunburnt?

Hargrove yanks open his door and says loudly, "HARRINGTON —"

"Oh my God," Steve says as he nearly falls out the door, scrambling for his backpack, "chill out, I'm coming —"

Hargrove looks like he's a second away from slamming the door on Steve's fingers.

Steve ignores this to grab his duffle bag from the trunk, which Hargrove has kindly popped open. "Hey, want me to grab your things?"

"Don't have any," Hargrove says, lighting a fresh cigarette. Steve's starting to resent the smell, an absolutely lovely feeling that mingles well with the guilt locked in his gut.

"Yeah, well." He slams the trunk closed. "It's just polite to ask."

"Okay," Hargrove says. 

Before Steve can get another word in, he locks the car and saunters ahead into the hotel. How he manages to swagger in the dry heat is beyond Steve; he can feel his scalp burning. Particularly in the spot Hargrove had messed up. This is entirely his fault, as most things are.

Steve drags himself through the faded lobby, trying not to think too hard about how it smells faintly like piss and weed. He also tries to ignore the awful soft-porn posters of Farrah Fawcett posted around the lobby space.

Hargrove snaps his fingers and says, ignoring Steve, "One room, two beds."

The balding man behind the counter looks up at them from his magazine, his expression so bored that he nearly garners Steve’s sympathy. "Hm. Nope."

Hargrove's face twists up into something ugly. "No?"

"Nope," the man says, flipping a page without looking back down. "We've only got single bed bedrooms."

"Why?” Hargrove demands. Steve feels rather sorry for the balding guy, though he seems unbothered.

"Families are passing through for last-minute vacations. Maybe. I dunno, I'm not asking all of 'em."

Hargrove smiles tightly. "Ah. Well, then, any of these rooms have a pullout bed?"

"Last one got taken by some old lady with a small dog," the man says. "I ain't asking her to move out."

Steve tries to think of a small dog sleeping in a pullout bed. It's a funny thought. 

Anyway, Steve's a babysitter and therefore a problem solver. "What if we got a couple extra blankets and a pillow?"

"Fellas," the man sighs, and he actually rubs his hairless head. His magazine is left completely forgotten. "Enough with the pretenses. I know you're just here to get your rocks off, and it's fine, I ain't telling. My cousin Marvin, I don't know if you know him, but he and his guy, Jo—"

"Why the hell would we know Marvin?" Hargrove hisses just as Steve says hurriedly, "No, no, we're cousins!"

The man chuckles humorlessly, shaking his head. "If you're cousins, I'm a Martian. Just take the keys and hand over the money and get settled in. I need to check on the rat traps."

Steve hands over the cash silently and follows a fuming Hargrove to their room. (Hargrove's got the pillow and blankets tucked under his arms but cares so little that they smack into the walls every time he rounds a corner. Steve almost wants to say something.)

It takes a couple shakes of the key to get the door open ("It's fucking rusting," Hargrove says in disbelief) but eventually they get it sorted out.

As terrifying as the lobby had been, their room's really not so bad. The worst part of it is the ancient green curtains. The rest — well, it's clean, for one, and besides the bed, there's also a neat desk and telephone, and connecting bathroom with toiletries. 

He'll call Dustin later; he hadn't told the poor kid he'd left. He's probably getting worried. And then he'll take a nice, long shower with plenty of conditioner. Steve can feel his hair going limp. Disgraceful.

Steve tosses his duffel bag to the side and looks to Hargrove, who's watching him closely; the only thing to figure out now is who's getting the bed.

He sighs. "You've been driving all day, I'll take the floor."

Hargrove looks like he's physically struggling with his insides. It'd be funny if Steve weren't so exhausted. "It's my fault you're even out here. You'd be in your own bed if I hadn't…"

"I was the one who said 'yes,'" Steve reminds him.

"Yeah, and I posed the question."

"I don't regret it."

"Really?" It's sarcastic.

"It's the truth."

"Take the fucking bed, pretty boy. I don't need it."

Steve thinks about how beat and exhausted Hargrove looks, and decides that maybe it’s better not to mention it. "Yeah, okay, then I'm driving tomorrow."

"Abso-fucking-lutely not," Hargrove says adamantly.

"I'm not getting in a car with an exhausted, angry driver."

"Fine. 'Cuz I won't be."

Steve groans and tosses his duffel bag next to the nightstand. He flops onto the bed, done with Hargrove's shit. "_ Fine _. Whatever. I'm sick of arguing."

"Good," Hargrove says shortly, throwing all his things to the ground. He stomps over to the bathroom and locks himself in, running the fan so Steve can't tell what the hell he's getting up to in there.

He's lucky Steve doesn't have to take a piss.

-

He wakes up to the sight of Hargrove leaning over him, eyes narrowed and mustache freshly trimmed.

"Jesus, princess, are you ever conscious?"

Steve waves him off, rolling over to see that the clock reads 7:00 PM. "Why am I awake, Hargrove?" he asks, voice cracking with sleep.

"Dinnertime," Hargrove says simply, swaggering over to the door. He mimes ringing a dinner bell, smiles as sweetly as a spoonful of shit. "C'mon, honey, I need you to pay the bills."

Steve groans.

-

Steve wants Kentucky Fried Chicken but Hargrove flat out refuses.

"What, d'you suddenly turn vegetarian?

"No," Hargrove says, and that's that.

They end up at a small diner with a dim neon sign, where the food's cheap but hot. Hargrove, of course, orders enough food to feed both Dustin _ and _ Lucas, while Steve can only stomach a small sandwich.

Hargrove chews around his second burger of the day slowly, watching Steve force himself to eat another mouthful of turkey and Dijon. "Not hungry?"

Steve shakes his head.

"Well," Hargrove says, "all you did today was sleep. Can't say I'm surprised."

"Hey, remember who's paying for all this."

Hargrove grins lazily. "Of course, how could I forget? Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Harrington, the most generous parents east of Hollywood." He knocks on the faux wood windowsill twice.

"False," Steve says, swallowing a stray piece of lettuce. "My parents cut me off. This is Scoops Ahoy’s money."

Hargrove pauses in chewing. "Really?"

"Why would I lie about that?”

“Huh. I guess you wouldn’t,” Hargrove says. He resumes eating.

Steve frowns. “Hey, weren’t you a lifeguard? Where’d all that money go?”

Hargrove considers the question. Or, rather, he considers whether he wants to answer Steve.

Evidently, Steve is trustworthy. “Locked away in college savings so Neil can’t get his fucking hands on it.”

_ He doesn’t hit — She doesn't get hurt. _

“Sorry,” Steve says quietly.

Hargrove just grunts. It seems to be his go-to response these days. "You're probably wondering what happened to make me show up on your porch."

"No, no," Steve says hurriedly. "I mean, I don't need to know. It's your own business."

"C'mon, princess, I know you're curious." The atmosphere's still heavy, but the way Hargrove smiles at him like he's one of the girls back home that wear just a little too much lipgloss... He's leaning across the table, elbows splayed and open. It does something funny to Steve's throat.

"No," Steve insists weakly.

It's enough to make him huff a laugh. He leans back in his seat, and Steve relaxes. Hargrove motions to his nose and swollen lip. It’s mostly faded by now, but the memory of what it _ had _ been still makes Steve uneasy. "My old man did this. But he's not why I left."

"You lived in California, right? 'Hollywood Hargrove'?"

He snorts. "They really called me that?"

"Yeah," Steve says, smiling a little despite himself. "Well, at least some of the theatre kids did. Think they were hoping you'd introduce them to Spielberg or something."

"Jesus, what a gaggle of idiots."

Steve huffs a laugh at that and Hargrove goes back to his food, seemingly satisfied for the moment.

-

When they get back to the room, Hargrove tells him he's going to stay outside for another hour. "Just need a breath of fresh air and some more stretching time. We'll be hitting the road bright and early tomorrow."

"Right," Steve says. He shuffles around, runs a hand through his hair, eventually just says, "Good night, Hargrove."

"Harrington."

And he walks himself back up to the room, alone, washes off in lukewarm water, and tucks himself within the bed's scratchy blankets.

-

Steve wakes up to screaming.

It’s an awful sound. No — it’s more than that. It’s haunting. Bone-chilling.

His eyes fly open and he goes into full panic mode, fumbling around for the light switch by the bed — _ there! _ — only for Hargrove to yell, “OFF! OFF, OFF —” 

Steve flicks it back off in a hurry.

He throws off the covers and follows hazy shapes in the dark until he reaches a small pile on the floor that he recognizes as Hargrove’s makeshift bed. Hargrove’s sitting up in the middle of it, heaving in terrible, shallow breaths, his shirt and hair soaked through with sweat. Even in the little moonlight they have, he looks sickeningly pale.

Steve wants to reach out. He also can’t bring himself to.

So he tells Hargrove, numbly, to breathe as deeply as he can. He counts through the breaths with him, hand hovering somewhere between them, and blocks out any fears and doubts: _ one, two, three, four, five, six… _

They breathe, and they reach _ thirty _ in a haze. They’re at _ forty _ when Hargrove’s finally able to relax.

Steve tugs the blankets gently away from Hargrove and tells him to take the bed.

He doesn’t argue this time.

-

Steve wakes up sore, his back to the end of the bed and blankets in a messy pile next to him. The sun’s hot behind the curtains, it’s nearly noon, and the bed is empty.

-

Steve buys two egg sandwiches and bottles of water from the convenience store by the diner and heads into the trees.

He’s surprised to find Hargrove not two feet from the edge of the treeline. He’s got his head in his hands, cigarette forgotten and hanging loosely between his knuckles. The light's gone out; Steve wonders how long he's just been sitting there like that.

"Lunch," Steve says, tossing the plastic-wrapped sandwich at Hargrove. It bounces off his legs and hits the forest floor with a sad crunch.

Hargrove doesn't move.

"Whatever, I tried." Steve tosses the water bottle over and isn't surprised when Hargrove lets it roll over uselessly by his feet.

Steve leans against a tree and takes a bite of his sandwich. It's not half-bad, given its origins. It is, however, half-tasteless.

He only gets a few bites through the sandwich when Hargrove tosses the cigarette aside and snatches his sandwich off the ground. He takes a bite of it furiously — like he really hates that he's doing it, but his other option is starving, so. Steve hopes he likes eggs.

They just eat in silence for a minute. It makes Steve think of Dustin and how he always has something to say, and what a miracle that is. He wishes he'd appreciated it more — or maybe kidnapped Dustin on their way out of Hawkins.

Oh, shit, he hasn't called Dustin yet.

Steve crams the rest of his sandwich in his mouth and washes it down with a swig of water. Shit, it's been two days now, Dustin and Robin have got to be worried out of their minds —

"Where the hell are you going?"

Steve freezes in dusting off his jeans. "Excuse me?"

Hargrove scowls. "I asked where the hell you were going."

"What's it to you?"

"Dunno," Hargrove says, and it's gruff. He stands up straight, shoulders suddenly locked back. "Does it have to be?"

Steve forgets a lot in this moment.

He forgets that Hargrove is injured, that Hargrove had woken him up, screaming, only hours ago. He forgets the tentative friendship they’ve begun to form. He forgets the list, the jokes, the bickering, the reading.

It’s so easy to forget and relive that dark, horrible night of Demodogs and tunnels when Hargrove’s fists are clenched and his eyes are flashing a sickly, bright blue.

He straight on tackles him, crashing them both to the dirt floor. He blacks out — for just a second — and comes back to his hands balling up in his shirt, one letting go only to reach back and come slamming down into his face.

He's got a leg hooked over his hip, and he's got him struggling, pinned to the ground, and then Hargrove's just pounding at his chest, punching him, angry, upset, but without actually meaning to hurt him and he's grunting and sobbing and it's so sad, so horrible.

He stops struggling after a minute. Just slams his palms into the ground — once, twice. Breathes hard. His breath is hot. They're both panting, the heat between them vibrating with electricity.

Neither of them moves. Steve watches Hargrove watching Steve, afraid to do or say anything to shatter the moment.

Hargrove's reaching up. Steve flinches away — but his hand is cupping his face, tentatively. It's warm and a little sweaty, but they both are and so Steve isn't really that concerned.

He's more concerned about the way Hargrove’s eyes flick down to his mouth, and the mutual hard press in their jeans.

-

"Hello, is Dustin —?"

_ "You DINGUS!" _

Steve pulls away from the motel phone, wincing at the volume. "Dustin, I'm sorry —"

_ "Goddammit, Steve, we thought Billy killed you!" _

"Er," Steve says.

_ "What — shit, Steve, is this your ransom call?" _

"No! No, no — well, you're right, it's Hargrove, but it's not violent — well, actually, he tried to fight me just now, but —" Steve doesn't want to think about that. "Uh, never mind, I just wanted to call and check in on you."

_ "Check in on _ me? _ What about you? Steve, gimme your location before he comes back!" _

"Um… I don't know where, exactly," Steve complies honestly. "But we're somewhere around Missouri or Oklahoma or something. We're on our way to California."

_ "What, why — ?" _

"When a guy shows up on your front porch, bloody and bruised, asking you to join him in his roadtrip adventure, you kinda forget to ask questions."

_ "Oh my God, Steve. You're so stupid." _

"Yeah, well, what's new?" Steve says, smiling into the receiver. His chest aches a little. Day and a half and he's already homesick.

_ "Dammit. Fine, fine, I'll call Max and let her know Billy hasn't killed you. YET. Anyway, do I get the house when you're away?" _

Steve laughs. "You wish. Hey, who's your new babysitter?"

_ "Um, haven't found one yet. Why? You — you're coming back, right?" _

"Definitely," Steve says, and it doesn't feel like a lie but it doesn't feel like the truth, either, "just wondering. Just making sure I've still got the job."

_ "Of course you do. You're the best babysitter in Indiana." _

Steve's suddenly afraid that if he says something, he won't be able to stop crying. He just nods and holds the phone tighter and hopes to hell that Dustin can't sense anything wrong.

_ "Steve? Don't forget the secret handshake. I'll see you in time for school? You promised to drive me for my first day." _

He takes a deep breath and wills his voice not to shake. "Yeah. Yeah, still on for that, kid."

-

The muffled sound of the shower starting shakes Steve out of his daze. Dustin had hung up minutes ago, but the phone’s still in his hand, the cord coiled around his fingers. He feels unsettled in a way that he never has before. It’s like the ground doesn’t even feel solid beneath his feet; everything around him feels like it’s in a different dimension.

He slides the phone delicately back into the holder and unwinds the cord slowly. Somehow, it’s like releasing a breath.

Steve sits on the bed and rubs his forehead, trying to figure out what in the hell’s happening to him. 

So they got hard-ons while wrestling. That’s not that uncommon, right? It doesn’t mean anything. Maybe his dumb, horny, teenager body just thought it was going to get sex, nevermind that it was _ Hargrove _ of all people. Or —

He remembers the dream he had when Hargrove had just woken up. The way Hargrove’s warm, wet hands had held him, had pressed them together —

Hargrove’s in the shower right now. God. Fuck. Steve pushes all the images of his body out of his mind and tries to forget it ever happened, but the more he tries to forget, the more the memories refuse to leave his mind. 

The water turns off suddenly, and Hargrove steps out the bathroom to see Steve, pink with embarrassment, clutching the bed blankets. His heartbeat is running wild — Hargrove’s watching him and as far back as he tries to scoot, he can’t pull away.

Hargrove studies Steve. Takes in his wild hair and frantic eyes, and says, lowly, “You like what you see?”

“No,” Steve lies, and his heart skips a beat.

Hargrove steps forward slowly until he’s standing right in front of Steve, who forces his gaze up to meet his eyes, only his right hand keeping the towel up. “I think you do.”

“_No_.”

Hargrove leans down, smooths his hair back and, God, his touch is so firm, Steve feels like he’s floating. His voice is soft — almost _ kind _— when he says, “All you have to do is ask.”

Steve can’t. He can’t, he physically can’t, can’t do that to himself, can’t reevaluate his entire world and self for — for _ Hargrove_. He shakes his head, but it’s small because, shit, he still can’t break Hargrove’s gaze. Shit, shit, shit. _ Fuck. _

He looks disappointed. With his reaction, with himself, with Steve — Steve doesn’t know. But he stands back up and starts to head back into the bathroom, water dripping onto the cheap motel carpet. His hair curls at the nape of his neck, even though he’s wet from the shower. He’s still got that damn earring on.

And then Steve is pushing him against the bathroom wall; they collide with a thud. Hargrove’s eyes are wide with surprise, but his mouth is curved upward, and that’s all the invitation Steve needs to crush their mouths together.

It’s consuming — all of it. Kissing Hargrove is an adrenaline rush, like humming gold in his veins. He presses them together until they can’t breathe and they’re gasping for air, and Steve can’t stop looking at Hargrove, doesn’t want to, and then Hargrove is grabbing his face and they’re kissing all over again — and it feels like an entirely new experience, somehow.

It’s different from anything else he’s felt before. He wants to sink into Hargrove’s skin and learn what makes him tick. Why he drinks and smokes and drives fast cars, why he grew the stupid mustache that’s tickling his nose, why his torso’s covered in fading bruises — why he kisses with such fire, and how it can burn so bright in Steve’s gut. 

Hargrove pulls away harshly, eyes dark and pupils blown. “Bed. Now.”

Steve nods hurriedly and lets Hargrove push him out of the bathroom back onto the bed, his towel long forgotten. Steve’s back hits the bed and he drinks the sight in and wishes he had a photographic memory, because he never wants to forget it: Hargrove, above him, eyes wild and hair messy, his scarred chest heaving and his cock full, looking at Steve like he’s the only thing that exists.

Steve reaches up to pull Hargrove into a kiss, and then Hargrove is ripping his pants down and Steve’s cock twitches when it’s even slightly exposed to the cool motel air. Hargrove’s rushing it, just grabbing Steve through his briefs, so Steve lets go of Hargrove to pull his shirt off and wrestle Hargrove over so they're facing one another, his hands draped around Hargrove's neck. He laughs at his victory and Hargrove grins, and then it fades and Hargrove says softly, harshly, brokenly, “Steve —” and Steve groans, knows he’ll never recover from hearing his name like that.

"Har—" It doesn't taste right in his mouth. Steve presses their foreheads together, basking in his heat, and whispers, "Billy."

Billy leans forward and they kiss, again; but it's soft this time. Chaste, even. Just a connection, skin to skin, brief but light and full of an unspoken emotion. It's an exhalation of relief.

It's Billy who breaks the kiss — he spits in his hand and before Steve can think to ask why, reaches down and takes Steve in his hand. Steve can't hold back the moan that's drawn out of him, he claws his fingers in Billy's skin, who shivers with delight, and he thinks he might have said, "Oh God, oh God…" but it's all lost in a wonderful haze.

His hand is soft, like he takes care of himself and moisturizes and all that. Steve wonders what his hands smell like, and promises himself that he'll kiss them all over later. For now, he settles for Billy's neck, and leaves a trail of kisses up to behind his ear — licks the spot just behind the earring, even bites down a little.

Billy swallows a groan in his throat at that, but doesn't falter in his attention to Steve. He drags his fingers up and down his length, applying pressure in all the right places, all the while baring his neck to give Steve more access.

"You're fucking beautiful like this," Billy murmurs into Steve's hair.

Steve just nods frantically and tugs at his earring with his teeth and Billy's breath hitches. He smooths it over by pressing a kiss to Billy's neck. He sucks at it a little and Billy actually shakes, actually full-body quivers — and Steve is fucking delighted. "Jesus — Billy, please —"

"Do it," he hisses, tugging at Steve so hard he almost orgasms on the spot. Precum is leaking out the tip, dripping down the tip and it's such a powerful sight in the moment, knowing what's happening — and Steve wants to make Billy feel the same way, but he's got a job to do first.

He holds the back of Billy's neck firmly but carefully and begins his work, licking and sucking his neck just low enough that Billy's hair could cover the site — but just far enough out that it doesn't have to. Billy loves it, fingers pressed into his thigh so hard that it'd hurt if they weren't so deep in it, other hand gripping him and working him raw.

God, Steve is so fucking close. He's right on the edge of the precipice, and he wants to fall, so badly.

But not without Billy.

"I'm going to —" he whispers shakily, right above his mark, and Billy says, voice hoarse, "I know —" and Steve climaxes right as he bites down, making Billy jolt as his climax wracks his body —

-

The post-orgasm clarity leaves Steve feeling oddly… empty. Suddenly his body is a stranger, and he doesn't really know what to do with his limbs.

Billy, though, grabs a couple tissues from the nightstand and wipes Steve down, gently, then himself. 

Then he just lays back in the bed. His right arm's tucked behind his head but his left arm is sprawled open, almost in invitation.

Steve stares at him. His gaze drifts to the darkening mark behind Billy's ear.

Billy notices and turns his neck, tossing the curls away to show the spot more easily. He grins — a lazy, terrifyingly gorgeous gesture. "You like what you see?" he echoes softly.

"Yes," Steve answers, honest. 

Billy’s grin fades and he lets fingers trace the broad, faded scar that decorates his chest. “Even this?”

Steve realizes, dumbly, that this is the first time he’s seeing this scar, even with Billy’s shirt buttoned low. He’s taken pains to cover it. Billy’s ashamed of it, somehow.

He can’t fathom why Billy would hate it so much. If Steve had a scar like that, he’d be fucking relieved — it’d be one more reminder that the Upside Down isn’t a distant nightmare. It’d really happened, and it’d nearly killed him. 

Them. It’d nearly killed them.

He studies Billy’s face, blue framed in gold and worry. Steve presses his hand to Billy’s and holds them both over his heart, over the landscape of his chest. It’s smooth where Steve’s is soft with hair. 

“Yeah. Even this,” he answers seriously.

And he lays back into Billy, Billy’s arm curling around to hold Steve. Billy turns over to press his chest to Steve's back and runs his hand up and down Steve's arm; and just like that, Steve is utterly surrounded and enveloped by Billy Hargrove. 

It makes Steve feel safe.

-

Steve dreams, but it's not unhappy.

It's nothing concrete — more just feelings and visions, but they're all wreathed in gold and filled with smiles.

Every single one of them contains Billy. 

It's terrifying.


	4. heart is turning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ([chapter title](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lJBf4izEUP8))

****When Steve wakes up, he is cold.

Hargrove's side of the bed is empty. Steve squashes down the hurt that comes with the realization and tells himself that he should've expected it, and that it is simply his fault for not seeing it coming.

He rolls out of bed and opens the bathroom door, only to find the shower wet...

...and, again, empty. Of course.

Steve just shakes it off and strips, ready to wash away whatever it was that happened last night.

Still… It isn't easy to forget how Hargrove had looked at him like he was his anchor, even if for only that brief moment. His eyes are a hypnotic shade of blue that Steve's certain poems or art, or some shit like that, get made about. He'd do it himself if he was more talented.

Nope, he's just a half-decent babysitter who's trying to figure out how to be a better _ something _ (a friend? person?) again. Whatever Hargrove's looking for, it won't be him.

Steve's pretty sure guys give each other handjobs all the time. It's something expected, right? It's just helping a guy masturbate. Which is normal and fine. It doesn't —

He flicks the water on and waits for it, impatiently, to steam. Only when it's scalding does he get in.

_ It doesn't have to mean anything. _

-

When he gets out of the bathroom clean, changed, and ready to go, Hargrove's back. Steve ignores the way his breath catches at the sight.

He's sitting on the bed, yet another cigarette between his lips, and Steve has to remind himself that he doesn't like smokers even as he tries to ignore the slip of darker (_bruised_) skin beneath his collar. "Finally done, princess?"

"Don't call me that," Steve says shortly. "And yeah. The car's ready?"

"It's why I left," Hargrove informs him, taking the cigarette out. Steve realizes, a little too late, that his bags are missing. He really should’ve been more concerned about that, but it’s difficult to think too hard about that when Billy’s getting to his feet, sauntering to Steve almost lazily, arrogantly, and it sets Steve off. "About last night —"

"Yeah, yeah," Steve interrupts, not wanting to hear it. "I know. Just some fun."

He cocks his head and Steve, embarrassed, does his best not to look at the mark Hargrove is clearly inviting him to peek at. "Just some fun?"

"Yes," Steve lies firmly. He moves to step past Hargrove but he steps in his way. "Hey, we heading onto the road or what?"

Hargrove sticks the cigarette back in his mouth and holds it there, face carefully blank of all emotion. “That’s it, princess?”

“Don’t call me that.”

"I'll stop calling you 'princess' when you call me Billy."

"In your dreams."

"Shit, if I were so lucky."

Steve doesn’t know what to say to this. Hargrove’s right in front of him, offering him… something, but it just — something isn’t adding up and Steve can’t look at Hargrove in front of him right now without thinking about Billy the night before. And it’s making him feel antsy in his own skin, so he pushes past Hargrove and says, “C’mon, daylight’s burning.”

Steve hurries down the stairs two at a time. 

-

Their drive through the rest of Oklahoma is silent. The only time Hargrove says a word is when Steve tries to roll down the window and he grunts, “No.”

Looking out the windows isn’t doing much for Steve — there’s nothing out there except waves of grass, and everytime he sees them, he thinks of Weathertop and the kids and how much he misses them. 

He tries sleeping, too. But Hargrove is just so present next to him, hand loosely draped over the wheel and ever-present cigarette dangling out his mouth, his cologne wafting through the car… Steve sends up a quick _ thank you _ that Hargrove’s hickey is on the other side of his neck.

Steve can’t just stare out the window and he can’t sleep, and Hargrove’s always particular about the radio. So he pulls out his list about Hargrove and starts to feel stupid.

_ Things I Know About Billy Hargrove: _

_1\. His name is Billy Hargrove._  
_2\. He's from California._  
_3\. He has a little sister named Max._  
_4\. Max is his stepsister, and Max moved to Hawkins with her mom, so he has a stepmother._  
_5\. Someone in his home beat him up before we left._  
_6\. He's good at basketball._  
_7\. He's good at kegging._  
_8\. He's good at fighting._  
_<strike>9\. He's been mindflayed</strike> _  
_9\. He's got decent taste in music._  
_10\. Takes care of his appearance. (Hair, shirts, mustache)_  
_11\. Believes that mustaches and fingerprints are equivalent._

Jesus, the last thing he wants to think about is Hargrove. What the hell is he doing?

Steve crumples it up into a ball and shoves it in his pocket, flushing fiercely red when he spots Hargrove watching him out of the corner of his eye. He digs through his backpack and pulls out Dustin’s DnD handbook…

Not the kids, either. Why does everything hurt to think about?

“Hey,” Hargrove says as they pass the sign proclaiming that they’ve entered Texas. Steve keeps looking out the window, too distracted in his attempts to ignore all the thoughts scattered through his brain.

Hargrove switches hands to rummage through the glove compartment. Steve looks up right as a book comes flying into his lap. He flips it over — it’s his copy of _ The Fellowship of the Ring_. 

Or rather, Hargrove’s copy.

“Read it.”

It burns in his hands, like a bomb about to go off.

Steve can't bring himself to open it, afraid that whatever's inside will explode on him. Instead, mouth dry, he asks, "Have — Have you read past where I left off?"

"A little bit," Hargrove confesses, releasing a cloud of cigarette smoke. It floats throughout the car and dissipates as quickly as it had appeared. "But I didn't get far. The hobbles or whatever are at the bar."

"Looking for Gandalf."

"Yeah. So you gonna read or what?"

"I'm definitely going to lose my voice."

"Nah, I swiped a couple waters from the motel. Manager was being a dick about getting the sheets dirty."

Steve can feel his cheeks burn red. He opens the book quickly, flipping to the first page that mentions the “hobbles” at the “bar.” Though his jaw feels stuck, Steve forces himself to start reading from the top of the page without stopping to ask Hargrove if that was really where he'd left off.

Luckily, Hargrove doesn't care enough to ask. Or maybe he just doesn't notice. He hardly seems to be paying attention anyway, aviator shades blocking his eyes and cigarette hanging loosely between his lips as he sits relaxed in the driver's seat.

His head is tilted towards Steve. That means that his hickey is in view to everyone on the road. This bothers Steve, and the fact that it does burrows the discomfort even further.

-

By the time Glorfindel arrives to rescue Strider and the hobbits, they've pulled into another gas station so Hargrove can refill the tank.

Exhausted emotionally and vocally, Steve silently hands Hargrove some cash to pay for the gas and simply waits in the car. He catches his gaze drifting lower than it should down Hargrove’s back, flushes, and forces himself to find something in the car to distract himself.

He wishes he could talk to Robin right now; she’d know what to do. But there’s no payphone here, and even if there were, he isn’t sure he has the guts to dial her number right now.

No — all he has is the list, so he pulls it out, scribbles one item, then shoves it back in his pocket for good.

  1. _ Nice ass_

He squirms in his seat for a second before ripping the list back out and writing,

  1. _ Eyes you could drown in_
  2. _ Long fingers_
  3. _ Neck made to be kissed_

And then Hargrove's headed back for the car, so Steve repockets the list and hastily pretends like he's been trying to nap this entire time.

Hargrove dumps the change in Steve's lap, chuckling when Steve has to dive to catch the rolling coins.

"C'mon, man, can't you just hand it over like a normal person?"

"Now where's the fun in that?"

"Geez," Steve says, "I don't know, maybe in my being treated like a normal human being?"

Hargrove looks over at him, flipping down his sunglasses. "Steve, why would I do that when you clearly aren't one?"

The combination of his name and the words — it hurts Steve more than it should. "The fuck is that supposed to mean?"

Hargrove arches an eyebrow. "What it says on the tin."

"I don't — Eat my shorts, Hargrove."

"Wow,” Hargrove says, the one word dripping with sarcasm. “Take it easy on a coma patient, will you?”

"What?"

"It _ was _ just days ago," Hargrove comments.

Steve blinks. "Days?"

"Funny how time passes."

"It's only — shit, you've only been awake for a week!"

"Yeah," Hargrove says. "So?"

They're speeding down the highway when Steve works up the courage to ask, "What's it like being in a coma?"

Hargrove's knuckles go white on the steering wheel. "What?"

"Like, can you still hear stuff? The nurse said you could, but I dunno how much you remember." Steve's genuinely curious; he’s never known anyone in a similar situation. The most his friends had ever gotten hurt before was Tommy breaking his arm back in the second grade.

"Hmm," Hargrove grunts. He stretches back in the driver's seat and flicks his cigarette out the window. "I remember you played me that wack Tears For Fears song. 'Shout'?"

"Shit?" Steve echoes, feeling equal parts confused and embarrassed. He'd thought it was catchy; Robin had to yell at him for humming it too often at the arcade.

"Yeah. So shitty that it got me to wake up faster. I was desperate to knock that stupid Walkman out of your hands."

Steve looks over at him, and Hargrove's grinning at the stretch of road ahead — not his predatory, awful grin, but a genuine one. Like he'd just told a funny joke — which, maybe to Hargrove, he had.

So Steve laughs a little, just a huff. But Hargrove starts laughing too, and something in Steve lets go and soon enough they're laughing together. The tension in the car dissipates with each breath.

"Thought for a split-second that you'd lost your funnybone there, Steve," Hargrove teases.

Ah, fuck. And with that, Steve's guts clench back up together. "Don't —"

"What?"

Steve licks his dry lips and forces himself to stare outside. The Texan sun's high above them, beating a sweat into his brow. It's giving him a headache and he wants to throw up.

Hargrove's saying something in the background, and he’s getting progressively louder. "Hey, fuck you, man. I'm driving you across the continent, and I can't even call you by your first name? I jerk you off and I still can't call you 'Steve'? It's two syllables shorter than 'Harrington', that’s what it is. Which is a fucking mouthful to say. So fuck you, I'll call you whatever the fuck I want —"

"But you're not my friend," Steve croaks. His mouth is a desert at this point. He needs water. Everything's spinning.

The car's engine rumbles as Hargrove presses his foot harder on the accelerator. It sends a jolt of panic through Steve's body; he can’t help but think of cars smashing in the night in a mall parking lot, the way the metal had crunched and crumbled —

"Excuse me?"

"We're not — You're too —"

"Too what?" His voice is dangerously tight, terrifyingly low. "I dare you to fucking say it!"

"Too much!" Steve nearly shouts, unsure what else to say. That doesn't feel like the right answer, and Hargrove won't stop accelerating the fucking car. "Dammit, Hargrove, I'm sorry! Just slow the fuck down!"

Hargrove just laughs his wild laugh and continues to speed down the empty highway, whipping so fast past the grass stalks that Steve swears a couple of them ripped off.

Steve's hand's curled around the door handle, feet pressed to the floor of the car. "God, Hargrove, what do you want me to say? That getting a handjob from you cured me of all doubts I had about your erratic personality? That I trust you now? That we're best friends? I barely know you, Hargrove! You never gave me a chance!"

Hargrove whoops out the window, voice lost to the wind. "Ooh, you hear that? It's all my fault! I'm the fuck-up!"

"I swear, I've tried!" Steve pleads, squeezing his eyes shut. "Now, just — please slow the damn car down, Billy!"

Hearing his first name triggers something in him. Hargrove lets his foot off the pedal, and the Camaro eases its way down from 90 miles an hour.

Steve's shaking like a leaf, but he stifles it as much as he can so Hargrove doesn't see. He refuses to give him so much as an inch of satisfaction.

The Camaro turns down to 60 miles an hour and Steve waits for Hargrove to press back down on the accelerator, but he never does. Instead, Steve watches in confusion as the Camaro dwindles down to 50, then 40, 30, 20, 10.

Zero.

Hargrove's pulled them over to the side of the road, right by the giant blades of grass. "Get out," he tells Steve.

Steve's mind is numb. "Here?"

"Yeah."

"Hey," Steve says, trying to squash the panic that's steamrolling through his brain, "c'mon, man, there's no need to —"

"I'm getting out right after you," Hargrove says calmly. "Just trust me."

Steve thinks of racing at 90 down an empty stretch of road towards nowhere again, and the sound of metal collapsing in on itself, and complies. He steps out his side of the car and leans against the hot metal outside, trying to rein in his thoughts.

He faintly hears a car door slam. Steve allows relief to wash over at the sound of Hargrove's shoes on the pavement, but it's quickly replaced with another spike of fear when he feels Hargrove's fingers tighten in his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs. He really does sound it. "Shouldn't have..."

"Yeah, you really shouldn't have." Steve swallows, meets his eyes.

They've gone completely dark with hunger and Steve realizes that Hargrove is legitimately, actually, officially insane. Hargrove barely nudges him and he stumbles back and when his spine digs into the car's edges, Steve's stomach drops out with a thrill and he realizes that, somehow, he is, too.

"You're crazy," Steve breathes, feeling dangerous and dangerously high. "You got off on that speed stunt?"

"Baby," Hargrove croons, leaning all up in Steve's space in a way that makes his heart race, "that and a helluva lot more."

The only way to describe Hargrove's kissing is as ravenous. He has that terrible gift of making you feel like the only thing on Earth that exists, and he uses it at full force on the side of the Texan highway. Hargrove digs into his shoulder with all his strength and grips the back of his neck, both holding him in place and providing him with a tantalizing sense of comfort and belonging.

Steve gives back with as much eagerness as he can, licking into Hargrove's mouth and earning himself a heartfelt moan. Steve could get drunk on that sound alone. 

Hargrove hoists him up against the car and Steve wraps his legs around Hargrove on instinct, holding into him there as Hargrove insists on using his hands to explore Steve's body — just moving over his chest and raking his nails in spots that shouldn’t be turn-ons, but are. It's unfairly erotic.

Meanwhile, Steve's just trying to mess up Hargrove’s hair as badly as he can while kissing the hell out of him without clicking their teeth together. God, he can't get enough of Hargrove. He's a damn drug. Better than anything Russia could cook up.

He finds the bruise he'd left last night and ghosts his fingers over it as he kisses along Hargrove's jaw, trying to show just how much he loves it. Steve thinks he succeeds, because Hargrove's smoke-edged breath releases shakily and warmly, a ghost of a smile appearing that Steve quickly swallows up.

"You're so fucking _ eager_," Hargrove mutters between breaths, though he sounds pleased. "You kiss your old girl like this, princess?"

"Not anymore," Steve teases, tugging at a lock of Hargrove's hair and making his eyes glitter.

Hargrove's red, swollen lips — oh, _ God_, Steve did that, it's intoxicating — quirk into a grin and he lets a slightly disappointed Steve down from his perch. "You'd better stay eager, princess. We're finishing this later."

Steve, dazed and suddenly cold, wants to argue — but his stubborn brain suddenly snarls, _ Don't give him the satisfaction! _The satisfaction of what, he isn’t sure. But he doesn't say anything, and gets back in the Camaro, stuck in a whirlwind of emotion. All he knows is he wants Hargrove. Badly. Last night, horrific as it sounds, was not a fluke.

Steve knows there isn't anything _ wrong _ with him. Not in the obvious way, anyway. Robin likes girls, and Steve happens to like girls and Billy Hargrove. It sucks, but whatever.

It's just… He can't help but remember that night when Hargrove drove up to the Byers' in his Camaro and nearly beat his and Lucas' brains out. And all the stupid fucking posturing he'd done at school, making Steve's waking and dreaming life both a living hell. And then hearing about how the Mind Flayer had got all up in his head — how he'd kidnapped all those poor people and fed them to that _ monster _.

Logically, Steve knows that that last part isn't Hargrove's fault. But something in his brain is connecting Demogorgon-Demodogs-Mind-Flayer-Hargrove and it makes his head hurt.

It's hard to remember that the man who encompasses all of that is the one climbing into the Camaro next to Steve. Who Steve had kissed and bitten and messed around with in a cheap motel, then made out with again on the side of the highway.

And… it’s different from kissing girls in high school. In high school, getting physical with someone was an achievement, just one more thing to boost your reputation. Steve had never thought of it as anything more than something fun to do; with Hargrove, it feels like the universe has opened up. It’s a pathway of communication to something deeper, something that can’t be spoken.

Hargrove sighs, lets out a low whistle. "Fucking knew it. You want me just as badly, princess."

"Don't ever do that again," Steve says after a short pause. "The speeding. I don't like it."

"I won't," Hargrove promises.

They fall back into silence.

"C’mon. You were having a great time just a minute ago."

"That's — I was —” Steve hates that he’s stuttering; he’s better than this. He’d been less nervous staring down Russian soldiers and interdimensional beings, which seems wrong to him. “I wasn't thinking clearly."

"I think," Hargrove says unpleasantly, turning the car on with a flick of his key, "you were thinking more clearly than ever."

Steve doesn't say anything. The adrenaline's leaking from his veins and it's sobering him up real quick.

They pull back onto the still-empty highway with Hargrove driving, thankfully, at a normal speed.

Hargrove asks, "You gonna keep reading your book?"

Steve says, "My throat's worn out."

Hargrove grunts. He holds the steering wheel steady between his knees as he lights up a fresh cigarette, the now-familiar scent of the smoke filling the car. "Hm. Too bad."

"Why do you smoke so much?" Steve demands, aggression taking him abruptly. "You've always got a cigarette in your mouth."

"What d'you care?" But Hargrove relents, taking the cigarette out of his mouth and blowing a cloud out the open window. "Bad habit. Neil hates it so I do it all the time."

Steve feels sorry for him, but he has a feeling his pity would only go unappreciated. "And here I was thinking you do it to look cool."

"That too."

"I'm not your dad," Steve says. "And you can't impress me. So you may as well quit them now," he nods to the pack of cigarettes on the dashboard.

Hargrove looks around shiftily. "You hate 'em that much?" _ You think you matter that much? _

"No. It's just that they're saying it's unhealthy, now. Nicotine."

Hargrove doesn't scoff but he doesn't look convinced either. "I'll keep that in mind. Max was right, you're like a fucking mother hen."

Steve's pretty sure he should be bristling at that, but he just feels a little warm and fuzzy. "And what's wrong with that?"

He grunts, gives an involuntary shrug. "Huh. Yeah."

"Great, thanks for the groundbreaking input, Hargrove."

"Call me Billy."

Steve scoffs, turns to look out the window. Not that the view's changed much in the past hour. "Why on Earth would I do that?"

"I'm the one with my foot on the accelerator, for one. And 'cuz we're stuck in this car for at least one more day together after this." Hargrove takes a drag of his cigarette and blows the smoke against the front window. It drifts out along the driver's side. "May as well try and be friendly. Though," he adds, like he can't help himself, "we've already gotten plenty friendly in other ways."

Steve groans and Hargrove just laughs his head off. "Really, Hargrove?"

"Billy," he corrects, but he's grinning. He knows he's already got Steve in his trap.

"Yeah, all right," Steve says. He hesitates for half a breath, then, "Billy."

"That wasn't so hard, was it?"

Steve wants to say it feels uncomfortable on his tongue but that would be a lie. It's scarily natural. And the satisfied look Billy's wearing makes Steve feel oddly pleased.

"Guess not."

"'Course not," Billy says. And that's that.

-

Steve dozes off for a half-hour and wakes up to Billy tossing a sandwich on his lap. It's kind of warm, which makes Steve slightly uncomfortable.

"Got you lunch. Ham and cheese, feast of champions."

"Where'd you get it?" Steve mumbles, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

"Some tiny mom-and-pop's store. Not even a 7-Eleven or anything. Gave me a fresh pack of cigarettes for free."

"How'd you pay for the sandwich, then?" Steve unwraps it gingerly, peeling off the Saran wrap like it's a banana.

"Took the money from your wallet," Billy says easily and Steve chokes on a bite of ham-and-cheddar. He eyes Steve warily. "What? I was hungry and didn't have any cash. You do. Problem solved."

"No, no," Steve says, coughing as his lungs try to declog. "It's fine, I was just — I'm fine —"

"Sure thing, amigo," Billy says, unconvinced.

And really, Steve shouldn't be at all surprised. He's been paying for everything with his hard-earned summer jobs money this entire trip, so what's a couple bucks more?

Yeah, that's not the problem. The problem is Billy got offended when Steve said they weren't friends, insisted on Steve calling him by his first name, then used his stuff without asking. It's all so damn familiar so damn soon.

_ You _ did _ make out with him twice_, his traitorous brain reminds him. _ And he gave you a handjob while you gave him a hickey. That's not exactly unfamiliar. _

It… isn't quite sex, but it isn't _ not_, either. The last time he'd been that intimate with someone else — or familiar, even — was with Nancy.

He still can’t remember her without feeling the echoes of heartbreak.

He loves Robin and Dustin, he really does. But even after fleeing Russians with Erica then fighting off the Mind Flayer, he isn't so sure if he really fits into their lives. Properly, that is, the way he and Nancy had felt so natural at the time. Robin's headed for college in a couple weeks; she's moving on with her life. And Dustin's so much younger. He feels more like a kid brother than anything. Steve wants to look out for him and Mrs. Henderson's always inviting him over, and Steve loves them both to death for letting him into their little family, honest, but it's not exactly what Steve's still looking for.

Billy's tapping his fingers along the steering wheel, humming some song Steve's never heard of under his breath. Steve thinks of adding something to his Billy List, but what he thinks of when looking at him now can't be put into words.

"Hey," Steve says. "Truth or dare?"

Billy flips up his sunglasses but doesn’t comment. "Hmm, how 'bout a dare?"

"Dare you to pick truth next," Steve says immediately, laughing when Billy swats his upper arm in annoyance.

"King Steve's still got a couple tricks up his sleeves.”

"Hey, hey, there's no rules against it. Come to think of it, are there any rules?"

"In California," Billy says, sly, "we had one: you chicken out, you've gotta remove an article of clothing."

"Huh."

"Of the asker's choice," Billy adds, flashing him a cheeky grin.

Steve rolls his eyes. "Of course you'd play strip truth or dare."

"Hey, gotta raise the stakes somehow."

"Or just have a no-chickening rule," Steve argues. "Joining the game is an automatic guarantee that you'll do everything you're asked to do."

"That sounds boring," Billy scoffs.

"Yeah, I guess you’d think so." Steve smiles to himself. "Now, c'mon, it's my turn."

"So it is. All right, princess, what'll it be?"

"Dare,” Steve says straight away. He’s curious to see what Billy thinks of.

“I dare you,” Billy drawls slowly, fidgeting with his sunglasses as he mulls it over, “to, mm, kiss me.”

He turns to Steve, lazy smile dazzling — _somehow —_ in the afternoon glow. It’s tempting. Steve knows he’s got to make up his mind soon (he can only let Billy keep his eyes off the road for so long) but he isn’t going to make it easy for Billy. No, he’s cool as a cucumber — he was King Steve, and flirting isn’t nearly as difficult to navigate as a basketball court.

So he gives Billy that heart-melting smile the girls used to go crazy for, leans in real close — and gives him a peck on the cheek.

“There you go,” Steve says coyly, unable to hold back a beam as Billy just curses him out and turns back to the road. “Truth or dare?”

Billy heaves a sigh and rubs his cheek absently. Steve feels _ very _ pleased with himself. “Truth.”

The moment's over as soon as Steve realizes he's stumped. “Ah, shit, I didn’t think this far ahead.”

“Then the fuck was the point of your last dare?”

“I dunno, I just felt like it.”

“You’d better come up with something good,” Billy warns. “None of that ‘what’s your favorite color’ bullshit.”

“Obviously, I’m not stupid,” Steve says, hastily scrapping ‘how do you take your eggs.’ “Hm… Hm. Oh, wait, I’ve got it.”

“Great, what’s up,” Billy deadpans.

“Why are we going to California?”

He doesn't even hesitate. “You’re coming ‘cuz I asked you,” Billy says. “I’m going ‘cuz staying with Neil and Susan and Max was driving me off the walls. Anywhere’s better than there.”

“Okay,” Steve says. “But if that’s true, then why _ California _?”

The ever-present cigarette in Billy’s mouth flares red as he takes a deep drag. “It’s where I was before Hawkins. Might as well go back. Besides, no way in hell would I stay out Midwest. The weather there’s a literal shitstorm.”

“Not a snow fan?” Steve jokes, though a part of him knows it’s not the full answer. He can be okay with that, for now.

Billy wags his finger and says, “You’ll need another truth to get that answer.”

“Fair enough.”

“Your turn, truth or dare?”

“Truth,” Steve decides, figuring he owes it to Billy.

Billy plucks his cigarette from his lips and taps the ash out the window. “Why’d you come and talk to me in the hospital so often?”

Steve feels like he’s been doused with cold water. God, he'd said so much embarrassing shit — about his _ feelings _ and _Starcourt_ — what _ had _ he even talked about? He can't remember. It's all a blur racing through his mind. “I — Who told you?”

“I already told you that I heard your Walkman,” Billy says, casually flicking the cigarette out the window. Steve watches it zip out the window of the car and disappear. “Kinda implies I heard other stuff.”

“Right…” Steve realizes he hadn’t really believed the nurse when she’d told him that coma patients could still comprehend the world around them. To be honest, Billy had looked so peaceful in the gurney — Steve would’ve sworn up and down that he was just asleep. And sleeping people don’t generally listen in on the waking world. “Okay. Sorry.”

“I didn’t wa—” Billy stops, corrects himself with an irritated wince, “ask for an apology. I just wanna know _ why _.”

Truth is, Steve can’t answer that. He’d thought he was looking for a friend. But he looks at Billy and he doesn’t think _ friend_, nor does he want that. He doesn’t know what he wants from Billy. And Billy — Billy hasn’t exactly made it clear what he wants from Steve, either.

Steve has a notion of why he did it. But it's a small idea, and one that terrifies him. He can't bring himself to voice it; it'd be like carving out a hole in his chest and presenting his whole self. And that's just too much for a roadtrip in a bright blue Camaro driven by the strangest guy he knows.

“I...” Steve starts, unsure how it’ll end, “I don't know.”

“So you held one-sided conversations with my unconscious body for no real reason?” Billy questions, incredulous. And, shit, that sounds like the worst thing ever and now Steve can add guilt to the whole melting pot of emotions he’s going through right now.

“No! Well, yes —"

"Pervert."

"Dickhead," Steve shoots back.

"Fuckface."

"Shitbrains."

"Pretty boy."

Steve refuses to blush. "That wasn't much of an insult."

"You're welcome," Billy says. "All right, now take off your shirt."

Steve's whiplash (and the dent in the road Billy speeds over) nearly gives him a snapped neck. "Excuse me?"

"Strip," Billy says by way of explanation, like Steve's slow or something. "You failed, Steve. Couldn't answer your truth. So I'm claiming an article of clothing."

"Uh… I never actually agreed to that," he counters, clutching maybe just a little tighter to the soft fabric of his polo shirt.

"You didn't disagree."

"No," Steve admits. "But c'mon, man, my shirt?"

Billy’s mouth’s curved into a smirk. “No need to play shy. I know you’re just itching to get it off.”

It's like the air's been electrified. Steve's brain switches and it… kind of likes the sound of that. He hates that he does, but he knows the game. He used to play it with all the girls at house parties, but now someone’s putting it on for _ him _ and, honestly, it’s flattering. “You sure it’s not just you? ‘Cuz you’re sounding more itchy than I am.”

“So what if I am?” Billy’s voice has that rough and low tone to it that sends a shiver through Steve. 

“Well,” Steve says, pretending to think it over, “I guess that means you’re not a very decent guy.”

“Damn straight,” Billy agrees, grin turned absolutely ravishing. Steve wants more of it.

“So it’d be bad if I did what you want.”

“Maybe I want bad.”

“And maybe I don’t,” Steve counters.

“You’re getting that shirt off one way or another. We can try it my way,” Billy offers, his tongue poking out between his grin.

“How about this,” Steve says, desperately ignoring the temptation of going along with Billy’s idea, “how about I take off my shirt…”

“Mm.”

“And you take off your shirt.”

Billy stirs with interest. “Really?”

“Yes,” Steve says. “And then we swap.”

Billy practically leers at him. “Yours might be a little tight on me.”

Steve leans on Billy’s chair and whispers in his ear, “Kinda the point.”

Steve doesn’t think he’s ever seen someone take off a shirt that fast before.

-

Truth or dare dwindles off after that.

Steve's rolled the window down, his arm on the rim of the car as the wind rushes through his hair. With the way Billy speeds down the highway, it feels a lot like a rollercoaster. His heart feels it too — the adrenaline thumping through his veins as he pretends to ignore that the shirt he's wearing is still warm with Billy.

It smells a little like him, too, and that cheap cologne he wears that used to bother Steve only because it was so irritatingly addictive.

The shirt's a little loose on his shoulders, but Steve keeps it unbuttoned in Billy's fashion. Having his chest exposed like that is so strange, so thrilling; Steve thinks he's beginning to understand why Billy does it. As revealing as it is, it's an armor of its own. 

_ Or an embrac _e, Steve's mind supplies, and he waves that thought away with haste. 

His shirt on Billy... It's one of his old shirts, a polo with blue stripes, and it's a little faded after all the times Steve's worn it. Billy was right — it does stretch across his shoulders, but he doesn't look uncomfortable. If anything, he looks a little blissful. He's got the collar popped slightly, just to throw off the preppiness. Steve finds that he doesn't really mind.

He lets his mind go blank as they race through stretches of gorgeous, empty desert, and Steve thinks this is the most relaxed he's been in years.

-

They check into a motel right as it goes dark. It's one of those motels that look more like they're built for truckers than families, so they're forced to share a room again. Getting two rooms would be way too expensive.

The concierge gives them a funny look, but she doesn't say anything. Just hands the keys to Steve (who'd, as usual, handed over the money) and sends them on their way. She doesn't bother with the extra pillows or blankets.

Steve feels electric with every step he takes, especially with Billy's hand on the small of his back, pressing Billy’s shirt just a little further under his skin.

“Excited?” Billy murmurs in his ear as he guides him down the hallway.

“You wish.”

“I do,” Billy says and Steve can’t help but shiver.

-

It’s funny, but being with Billy is one of the few times Steve can say, for certain, that he was living solely in the moment.

The other times were when he was fighting monsters. Of course, that was different — if he didn’t pay close attention, anticipating moves like he would in baseball, he’d be killed.

Here, now, slicking Billy up so that he moans and shakes under Steve’s touch… this is something Steve _ wants_, desperately, to do. That’s why he’s paying attention to every twitch of Billy’s body, every shaky sigh he releases. He’s drowning in the sounds and feelings and touch and he’s in love with it.

“Need you in me,” Billy insists, his belly to the bed as he gropes at Steve’s arms, trying to pull him even closer than he already is, knuckles deep in Billy. They’re both slick with sweat and so the move is futile, but knowing how badly he’s wanted just makes Steve even more aroused than before.

He curls his fingers like Billy'd instructed him earlier, and he practically melts in Steve's grasp. It's heady, knowing he has the power to get Billy to fall apart in his arms like that.

"Get your cock out," Billy says, raspy, "and fuck me, Steve."

Steve does as he's told. If he kisses Billy's neck and caresses every inch of his body he can reach along the way, too, well. Billy isn’t complaining.

-

They doze for the rest of the evening, Steve tucked into Billy's chest like last time, just listening to his steady heartbeat beneath his soft skin.

Billy doesn't smoke his cigarette. At one point, Steve offers to roll off so he can get his pack, but Billy just holds him tighter like he's afraid Steve's going to slip away.

Steve wants to reassure him that he's not going anywhere. That he's come this far, so many states away from home on a whim, and that that means something, but the words are hard to find and even more difficult to say.

It's not like with Nancy, where all his love and affection came to the surface with ease. He wanted to make her feel loved and appreciated every day because he could and because he was certain it would make her happy — and it did, up until Barb. But he wasn't enough for Nancy. And he's pretty sure he won't be enough for Billy, either.

He doesn't even know what Billy wants besides to be fucked and kissed and to hold someone, because anyone back in Hawkins could've done that for him. Yet he’d shown up on Steve's front porch.

Steve rubs his thumb over the back of Billy's hand where it's wrapped around his waist. He's got some hair on it, and it's as soft as Billy's curls. If Steve doesn’t think about it too hard, it almost feels like holding his hand.

Billy presses his face into Steve's hair, which is a little sweaty, and Steve would be more concerned if it didn't feel so genuine and secure. He'd pull Billy closer if he could.

The light fades the sky from rosy red to darkness in the blink of an eye. Their desk lamps are still on full brightness. 

Billy wraps his fingers around Steve's hand gently. "Do you want the lights off?"

"Not really," Steve whispers back.

"It's okay," Billy says. It's a relief, a confession. "Me neither."

"Kinda hard sleeping in the dark knowing monsters are out there."

Billy just hums his agreement. His hand moves lower on Steve, and Steve realizes what kissing on the highway was — a distraction. But he doesn't want the distraction. Not now. Not when they're almost there.

Steve moves his hand back up, gently, and says, "Dustin's friend, El. She says you'd been connected to the Upside Down."

He goes tense beneath Steve's body. "I don't want to talk about it."

"I've only seen part of it," Steve tells him quietly, fidgeting with their hands. "There were tunnels of Demodogs that me and the kids crawled through. 'Course, I was only half-conscious for that thanks to you. It was after you beat me up," Steve adds. There's no malice to it. It's just a matter-of-fact thing that happened.

Which is why Steve's taken aback when Billy actually apologizes for it.

"Sorry."

It's small but the fact that he says it is, in and of itself, a surprise. It's his, what? Second, third apology of the day?

"Really?" Steve says, a little dumbfounded.

"I get worried about Max. There's a lot of nasty men out in the world." Steve knows Billy means more than he says.

"And Lucas and I are some of them?" Steve prods, lacing their fingers together. Billy's skin has a splash of freckles; it’s nice.

Billy's hand is limp in his. "No."

"Hmm," Steve says, and he brings his knuckles to his lips and presses a kiss to them. "Didn't feel that way."

"I wasn't in my right mind."

"'Cause you're a crazy son of a bitch," Steve says.

"Fuck off," he says without malice.

"Y'know," Steve says. "There's worse monsters out there."

"I damn well know that. I've lived with two."

Steve squeezes his hand. "I know. And I'm sorry."

"Nothing you can do about it," Billy tells him.

"I can try."

_ You already are_, goes unspoken between them.

-

Steve doesn't dream that night.

It is a relief.

-

There's a terror in realizing that everything you've never known you've wanted is right within your grasp — or rather, you're in his grasp.

Steve wonders if they'll ever acknowledge it. Knowing Billy, he thinks it'll take a while. Hopefully Steve will still be at his side by then.

For now, Steve thinks, watching Billy's hands on the steering wheel as he pulls the Camaro out of the motel parking lot and back onto the highway, it's enough to know that it's there.

-

When Billy takes his hand in his on Venice Beach and asks if he's happy, the feeling returns in earnest.

The sun's half-in and half-out of the horizon, splashing golden hues across the sky, warming the crashing waves.

Steve looks up at Billy and drinks in the furrow of his brow, the tight, worried press of his lips. The way his curls fall into his face and brush his cheek in the soft ocean breeze. His mustache is growing back, which Steve doesn’t know how he feels about. But he could count every line and freckle on his face every single day and never get bored of it. 

He squeezes Billy’s hand.

"Yeah,” Steve says, gentle. “I think I am."

-

_ Things I Know About Billy Hargrove: _

_1\. His name is Billy Hargrove._  
_2\. He's from California._  
_3\. He has a little sister named Max._  
_4\. Max is his stepsister, and Max moved to Hawkins with her mom, so he has a stepmother._  
_5\. Someone in his home beat him up before we left._  
_6\. He's good at basketball._  
_7\. He's good at kegging._  
_8\. He's good at fighting._  
<strike> _9\. He's been mindflayed _ </strike>  
_9\. He's got decent taste in music._  
_10\. Takes care of his appearance. (Hair, shirts, mustache)_  
_11\. Believes that mustaches and fingerprints are equivalent._  
_12\. Nice ass_  
_13\. Eyes you could drown in_  
_14\. Long fingers_  
_15\. Neck made to be kissed_  
_16\. Might be in love with me_  
_17\. Might be in love with him_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, it's all finally posted! Thank you so much to everyone who stuck with, or, hell, even just clicked into this fic. This fic holds a lot for me emotionally and is the first creative spurt I've had in a long while, so your kindness and support literally mean the world!
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you!
> 
> (On another note, I've gone back and reformatted the fic a little so it's more download/epub friendly. Hopefully that'll make it easier to read!)
> 
> You can catch me on Tumblr [here](https://orphee.tumblr.com/post/187766267674/i-love-you-but-im-lost-ao3-44-now)! :)


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